


Nyctophilia

by Green_essential



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Dark, Forced Relationship, Kidnapping, Mostly one-sided, Multi, No Healthy Relationships Here, Obsessive Behavior, Other, Platonic Soulmates, Possessive Behavior, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, The Iceberg Lounge, The Rogues Gallery (Batman), especially at first, wow look at these tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26892061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Green_essential/pseuds/Green_essential
Summary: Nyctophilia: A love of darkness; finding comfort or peace in the darkness. But 'darkness' isn't a thing, is it? 'Darkness' is simply a lack of light. I'm sure you think this story is about me becoming that light. But I'm afraid you'd be wrong.
Relationships: Rogues Gallery (Batman) & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Honestly I'm not too sure what to say about this story. I'm having the worlds worst writers block with all my other stories, especially my Far Cry 5 one, and it doesn't even have that much left to it. Anyway, even when I have writers block, I still try to write, and this is mostly just a 'for fun, little experiment' type deal. Let me know after this chapter if it's something you think is worth continuing!

I’d just like to start this story off by saying I didn’t _ask_ for any of this, I didn’t _want_ any of this.

Soulmates were rare.

The last documented soulmate was 1893. They had already decreased in numbers, but for some reason, they began to die out. Not for lack of effort, of course. People desperately chased down who they believed to be the object of their mark, but just because you were born with one didn’t mean you’d meet them when you were ready, or at all. If you were lucky, you’d meet them at middle age, most likely married to someone else, with a family, or near the end of one of your lives. If you were a rare gem, you’d meet them young. But mostly, you never found them within your lifetime.

And so, tired of waiting for someone who may never show up, people took their happiness into their own hands, and made their own happy endings. Eventually, the marks just stopped showing up.

Platonic soulmates were even more rare.

Someone who wasn’t romantically tied to you but was just as important to your life and wellbeing. Of course, platonic soulmates had died out hundreds of years earlier, somewhere around 1400. Since they were so rare, and more importantly, hardly ever spoken of, it was hard to pin down a solid date. However, the fact still remained: Romantic or platonic, no one could protect you, care for you, and in romantic cases, love you better than your soulmate could. Due to this, there was no bond. That was just a popular myth. Reading their thoughts, feeling their pain? Also a myth. Truth was, you didn’t need it. Since that person just kind of inherently knew how to care for you, it was human nature to want to be near the person who really knew you.

But, there was a legend.

A Chain.

Chain’s were first discovered in an old journal of a 13th century physician. He spoke of someone who had come to him with multiple marks, each one just as important and unique as the last. He claimed that this person had the marks of some of the most important people they knew, teams and partners who he was certain would change the world. Who these people were was speculated, but he never wrote down the names, or really described the marks, for that matter. He only said that he believed Chain’s were the glue that held together a group of people who were destined to be forever intertwined. Unfortunately, his studies ended abruptly when the Chain he was studying killed herself out of fear she would be burned or executed upon the discovery of her marks, which were quite difficult to hide.

So, let’s play that back: Romantic soulmates? Insanely rare. Platonic soulmates? Died off in the 1400’s, and Chain’s? Only a single documented case, with some rumors of there being one more, at the most.

Pretty heavy odds, right? Enough to give people a sense of security. It shouldn’t even be possible to get both.

So why in the world was I born with not one, not two, not even fucking three, but _twelve platonic soul marks?_

Welcome to my story. You might want to buckle in, cause this one’s wild.


	2. CHAPTER ONE: GENESIS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who knew Marie getting the stomach flu would be the push that sent the wheels of her life into motion?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Well, thanks for coming back! I had the day off today, and I spent at least an hour staring at a blank document trying to come up with the next chapter for my other stories, but unfortunately, nothing. So, I decided to just throw this one in there in an attempt to get things going. Here's a couple of things you should know about this story:  
> This is going to be DARK. I rated it mature for a reason, and a very good one. This isn't a story where the Rogue's are soft and watered down and are just tortured souls who truly want someone to love. NO. This story will have their full characters, dark and messed up and evil as they are. I will not purposefully be depicting them in an OOC light, (and if you think they are, lemme know).  
> Our heroin also is NOT the kind who is willing to turn a blind eye towards ever bad thing the Rogue's have done and ever innocent person they hurt just cause their marks are on her skin. I always see soulmate stories where the girl just suddenly gives up ever moral and belief that she has for the sake of the soulmate, and I've always wanted to see someone wrestle with that as they realize that these people who are supposed to care for them have destroyed so many innocent lives. Also, I like my female characters to be strong, to have their own opinions and beliefs and things they stand for. If you're looking for fluff and healthy relationships, even platonic ones, I'm afraid you have come to the wrong place, my friend. Just warning you in advance, cause I'm a big believer in knowing what you're getting into.  
> Face claims: For our lovely main character, Camilla Cabello will be standing in. For our Rogue's gallery, I will be mostly using the characters from the Arkham games, especially Arkham Knight. Martha Ramos will be played by Eva Longoria, Santiago Ramos Sr. will be played by Antonio Banderas, and Santiago Jr. will be played by Raphael Alejandro.  
> And now, onward!

Our story begins in a basic studio apartment.

It was roomy, as far as studio’s go. The resident had sectioned off a small space at the very back with a bookshelf and some gauzy, white curtains for her bed. Directly off to the right of that was the bathroom, small as it was. Her kitchen was to the right as soon as you walked in, and to the left she’d created a small living area, complete with an old couch she’d found at thrift store and deep cleaned herself before even bringing it up to her apartment. It didn’t look too bad, seeing as she’d purposefully gotten a black one to make sure stains weren’t too evident to whoever was visiting. A TV, actually quite sizeable given how long she’d saved up for it, sat on a simple stand that was loaded with DVD’s underneath.

The apartment had some comforting touches. A fluffy white rug, lights strung around the whole studio despite the large one right in the center. Just above the bed, multiple photo’s were tacked up, depicting our resident with multiple different people, landscapes of a country she no longer lived in but desperately missed, all smiles and joy. The kitchen was filled with mismatched plates, pots, pans, and cutlery, nothing ever in a complete set.

The apartment was peaceful, and aside from the soft sound of the shower running and music coming from a stereo in the corner, not much was happening at seven at night, the sun outside having already gone down.

But that was when our resident’s story officially begun.

The dark-haired girl flung her bathroom door open, cursing quietly in Spanish as she slipped into the cold air. Goosebumps rose along her arms and legs as she left the warm, steamy bathroom and crossed over to her dresser, yanking it open to grab her undergarments. Her ‘uniform’ was already laid out on her bed, shoes lying haphazardly by her door. She spied the alarm clock, perched on the nightstand that sat just next to her bed, and swore again, this time in English.

She stumbled back into the bathroom, throwing on her traditional makeup and moving to throw her damp hair into a high ponytail. She didn’t have time to straighten it, so she rushed to run some product through her hair that would (hopefully) make it look less ‘I-definitely-didn’t-have-time-to-do-my-hair’ and more ‘effortless-messy-waves’.

Once she was finished throwing on her mascara, (and successfully poking herself in the eye once or twice) she rushed out to slather lotion onto her dark skin and snatched up her ‘uniform’. If the girl was being honest, she wouldn’t call it that. Marty told her when she first started working there that it only had certain requirements. 1. The top had to be dark red 2. No slacks 3. No slogans or logos 4. Shoes had to be black and finally 5. If you were female, it had to be at least a little sexy and you had to wear heels.

Now, our resident didn’t mind heels; she enjoyed the feminine things in life. But running around, delivering drinks, dodging inebriated patrons groping hands and going up and down the club’s stairs in her four-inch heels wasn’t exactly what she would call ‘productive’, and it definitely wasn’t comfortable.

Once her usual quarter-sleeve red blouse was on and some faded, a little-too-tight jeans were now resting in place, she surveyed her skin, already noting what she would need to cover.

To the untrained eye, they looked like tattoos. Very random, but tasteful, and all black, gray, or both. No colors.

But our main character knew differently.

The eleven marks on her skin had been there since the day she was born; a sure sign the people they represented were all older than her; by how much, she couldn’t be sure. Grabbing the tube of waterproof, body mark concealer she’d first started using not too long ago, she went from top to bottom.

First, a black question mark on the back of her neck. Since she kept her hair long, it was usually easy to hide, but her hair had to be up for work. Next, a yin-yang symbol on her chest, just above her left breast. Then, a poker game’s Royal Flush ran across her right ribs, followed by a black pawprint that she always suspected was feline on her left hip. Those would be just fine, covered by her shirt, as well as her legs.

On the back of her left calf was an outline of something, most likely an animal, but she’d never been able to get a good enough angle on it to see it clearly. A black scythe ran the length of her right thigh, the blade curling around to the front, and a vine that started at her left hip ran down to wrap around her knee. Her smallest mark was a delicate, exotic looking flower on her right ankle.

Up on her arms, she had to take extra care to cover the snowflake sitting on the back of her right hand; it was intricate and beautiful and the only one of her marks she actually truly liked. Next, on her left forearm, a set of five tally marks glared at her, crudely designed with jagged edges. On her other forearm, a set of five diamonds wrapped around the circumference of her arm and were always a bitch to fully cover. Finally, on her right bicep, a black and gray design of reptile-like scales glared at her.

Finally done, our protagonist grabbed her phone from where it was charging on her nightstand and rushed to her front door, snatching her jacket and bag from the couch as she ran.

“Wallet, phone, keys…” she muttered quietly, stuffing them all into her bag, and finally grabbing her heeled boots, jamming her feet in and barely managing to sufficiently tie them before she was out the door.

Gotham at night was just as creepy as you would imagine it to be. It always seemed like something out of a horror movie, but if you were to ask our character, she would simply shrug and say, “It’s home.”

Of course, Gotham hadn’t always been Cataleya Ramos’s home. Born in Cartagea, Colombia to a textile worker and a housewife, Santiago and Martha Ramos, her family moved to Chiclayo, Peru when she was three and her father lost his job. Not too long afterwards, her parents had another baby; her little brother, Santiago Jr.

Life in the large, crime-ridden city wasn’t always great. They weren’t allowed to stray too far from the apartment, and they couldn’t be outside after dark. But the two children would go out to the small plot of land behind their building, filled with dead grass and sand, and they did what they could. Piling old, wooden pallets together to make a castle, where she was the queen, and he was her noble knight and personal bodyguard. Together, they fought off the vicious wolves, (trashcans) ogres, (recycling bins) and the fearsome dragon, (the garbage truck that parked for a few hours while the garbage guys got lunch from the restaurant on the first floor of their building).

For six years, life was wonderful. They weren’t well off, but Santiago and Martha adored their children, and their children loves each other and their parents. Their parents worked hard to ensure food was in their bellies and that they were warm at night, but the children never noticed. Because, when you’re that age, you’re blissfully naïve as long as your basic needs are met. It was one month after Cataleya’s ninth birthday when it happened.

When tragedy struck.

They were just playing, like they normally did. Cataleya ran down the sidewalk, squealing as her little brother ran after her with the large, plastic squirt gun she’d been given for her birthday. The cold water was a blessing on such a hot, August day, especially since she always had to wear clothing that covered her marks.

Santiago Jr. had run out of water, and shouted to his sister, telling her he needed to turn back. His small, worn sneakers crunched on the loose gravel as he began to turn.

It all happened so fast, yet thinking back, it was like the girl could watch it in slow motion. As she pivoted around to follow her brother, the sound of squealing tires caught her ears. Then a motor, louder and louder, barreling towards them. Her brown eyes lifted, catching sight of the large truck. Her little brother went to run across the street, and her mouth opened, hands outstretched, a scream in her throat-

-but it was too late.

After the funeral, her parents slowly began to spiral. All her mother did was cry, and Martha Ramos became deathly afraid to allow her only living child out of the house. Her father’s drinking only increased, and nothing seemed to pull him out of it. His wife never left, even when she should have, desperately attempting to pull her husband pack towards herself and her daughter. But, no matter how hard he tried, Santiago Sr. had lost a vital part of himself after his son’s funeral. A year and a half later, he collapsed from alcohol poisoning outside a bar and froze to death.

Now alone, Martha and thirteen-year-old Cataleya moved to the US. Settling in Eagle Pass, Texas, the pair gained citizenship and Martha worked odd jobs as she went to school at night, desperate to provide for her daughter. They didn’t have much, but the young girl grew even closer with her mother, watching as she worked hard to raise her to be a strong, independent, and hardworking young woman.

Her mother struggled with English, having only spoke Spanish and some Portuguese throughout her life in Brazil and Colombia, which became an obstacle in obtaining solid work. When Cataleya reached fifteen, she started working odd jobs in an attempt to help her mother. For those short three years, it almost seemed like they would be able to move on, to be happy.

But Fate was so, so cruel.

Martha was diagnosed with Leukemia after her daughter’s sixteenth birthday. They were already struggling with money, and Cataleya was forced to drop out of high school, obtaining her GED and joining the Army a year later in an attempt to be able to afford treatments. But it was too late.

In the last year of her daughter’s contract, Martha Ramos died.

After such a long, painful battle with the poison in her body, she’d begged her last surviving child to allow her peace. Most of her mother’s family traveled up to say their goodbye’s and support the last member of the Ramos family. It was in a small hospital room that the twenty-year-old held onto her mother’s hand, sobbing and laughing as they looked over pictures and re-lived happier times. Then, at 12:01 a.m., she kissed her daughter’s head, and went to join her husband and son.

Cataleya’s family traveled back down to Colombia and Brazil, offering to house her once her military contract was finished in less than year. But the young woman couldn’t. Despite how much she missed her home, she knew it would never be the same, missing such important parts of herself. The memories were simply too painful. So, once she had been honorably discharged, she packed her bags and moved as far away as she knew.

And it just so happened to be Gotham, New Jersey.

She was unused to the cold, but adapting was what Cataleya Martha Ramos did. She started work at an underground, somewhat-shady club called _Marty’s_. The owner was involved in some pretty dark business deals, but that meant she was paid under the table and got to keep all of her tips without any questions asked, so she didn’t bat an eye, and simply did her best.

Which brings us back to the present.

Shivering against the chill that was becoming ever more present in the nightly breeze, she slipped down the stairs and ducked into the club through the back entrance, a soft sigh of relief passing her lips as she was met with warmth.

They still had an hour till opening, and the other server’s and bartenders were turning chairs upright, wiping down tables and bar surfaces, stacking plates and sorting silverware. Upon hearing her footsteps, a tall blonde looked up from her spot at the bar.

“Leya!” She greeted brightly, blue eyes shining, “I thought for sure you weren’t going to make it!”

Her voice was teasing, but the dark-haired, younger woman shot a nervous look at the clock by the bar as she clocked in, heartbeat slowing when she saw she still had two minutes to spare.

“Are you kidding? Marty would’ve had my head.” She groaned, snatching up a rag and starting to help Andrew, the bar tender, wipe down the glasses. He smirked in her direction.

“Oh, we were all kind of hoping he’d start something so we could watch you rip him a new one in Spanish again.” He chuckled, joined by some giggles from the other members of the staff. Leya rolled her eyes as the blonde joined in again.

“Yeah, that was hilarious! He looked like he was close to shitting his pants when you started in on the cursing.” She choked out through her laughter, and the younger girl bit her lip to hold back the grin that took up at the memory. She’d smacked the hand of a rather grabby patron off of her, and Marty had the gall to act like she’d assaulted him.

“Well, if he learned to mind his own damn business…” she started, her own laughter bubbling to the surface, when a high, annoying voice interrupted her.

“Who needs to learn to mind their business?”

The light-hearted atmosphere died almost immediately, the employee’s scattering like cockroaches when the lights came on, running off to complete any task that wasn’t near the speaker.

Marty Russo was, in short, an asshole. I wish there was a long backstory to tell you that explained his asshole ways, but there wasn’t. He was rude, loud, selfish, cheap as hell, and a pervert. He and Leya had been butting heads since he first hired her, but she was what brought in most of their regular patrons, and not many people willingly came to him for work like she did, so they did their best to stay out of the other’s way.

Except for these times, anyway. At times like this, Leya knew that she had to keep her mouth shut, as much as she wanted to just slam her fist into his temple.

“No one, Marty.” Andrew grumbled, giving Leya’s arm a comforting squeeze before grabbing a bin of glasses and starting for the kitchen. The owner glared after the bartender but didn’t dare make a move. Andrew was nearly six inches taller and about two-hundred pounds, it wasn’t a fight that would last too long. Clearing his throat, he turned back to Leya, who was doing her best to ignore him as she stacked some bottles for display behind the bar.

“I see you’re on time, tonight.”

“When am I ever not on time?” (It was a stupid response, she was one tardy away from a formal warning, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction).

He snorted derisively, but didn’t answer, instead walking round the block the exit to the bar, bracing his hand on the counter.

“Look, Marie called in sick tonight, and I’ve got an important business deal going down at one. So, that means you’ll be covering the back room tonight.”

Indignation and some anxiety flared in her chest, but as she turned to open her mouth, Marty was already walking away. “Don’t even try to say no, Leya, I’ve already given your normal section to Jerome. So, if you don’t want to work it, I can always send you home.”

Her fists clenched so hard, her knuckles turned white, but she swallowed the fury and slammed the bottle a little harder than necessary onto the glass shelf, wincing when it clanked down loudly. 

The backroom was not a coveted position. It was where Marty did his ‘business deals’, which meant whatever server assigned was dealing with other club owners, mob bosses, and crime family heads. The tipping wasn’t great, at least not good enough for what the job required from you, it was far enough away from the kitchen that made it difficult to be quick, and the patrons always had the attention spans of kindergartners. The first two girls, Eliza and Jessalyn, had both left their shifts crying, swearing they never wanted to go back. Finally, Marie, a middle-aged woman that had no problems keeping a steely look and could probably hand a few goons their asses in a fight, had offered to take up the spot. It had only been a year, but she hadn’t buckled under the pressure yet, so Leya assumed things were good.

She didn’t want the position; she was good at her job, but not that good, and she didn’t want to risk death. But she also couldn’t get sent home tonight; rent was due next week, and she was about one hundred dollars short. If she missed another payment, her landlord would be on her ass again. Not to mention her fridge was beginning to look rather sparse, and the mouse problem in her apartment wasn’t getting any better; she needed more traps.

So, with a deep breath, she snatched up her notepad and pen, and continued with preparation.

The patrons were arriving around twelve-thirty; if criminals were anything, they were punctual. She never saw them enter, (Marty’s ‘special guests’ always used the back entrance connected to the room) but as she returned with some appetizers for the table, several had already begun to file in.

First, there was Salvatore Maroni. A little thick around the middle, the forty-something man sat on the chair his bodyguard pulled out, snuffing out his cigar as he did. Following him, another man in a royal blue, pin-striped suit strolled to the chair across from him. Carmine Falcone. The family heads kissed each other’s cheeks, offering warm greetings, but even Leya could sense the tension. Maybe that was why they were there? Discussing recent conflicts?

“What can I get you gentleman?” She asked, keeping her voice light and easy to hear, but indifferent and not too cheerful. Both men looked up, nodding at her.

“I’ll have a scotch, my dear, neat.” Falcone answered his gruff voice. He was older, around sixty now, and looked a bit more tired than he normally did whenever she saw a picture in the newspaper, discussing his most recent escapades. Nodding, she wrote down the order and turned to Maroni, who’s eyes were lingering a little too long on her hips for her liking.

“I’ll have the same, but on the rocks.” He told her smoothly, and she scribbled it down, keeping her composure as he leaned a little too close. “You must be new. Where’s Marie?”

“She’s out sick tonight, my name is Leya.” She answered without skipping a beat, resisting the urge to take a step back. Maroni nodded, a lecherous smile on his face as his eyes dipped to her blouse before coming back to her face.

“Beautiful name for a very beautiful girl.” He told her, voice slippery like an eel, and she fought the creeping feeling in her spine. She nodded at him, forcing a small smile onto her face.

“Thank you very much, sir-“

“Already hitting on the waitstaff, Sal?” A new voice called out, slightly muffled, and she looked up to see a bright white suit, complete with a black silk shirt and shoes, coming in the door. But what really caught her attention was the black, skull-like mask that covered his face, revealing only two gray eyes that pierced her own.

Black Mask.

_Fuck,_ so this was a _meeting._

“Can I get a gin and tonic, sweet cheeks? Thanks.” He told her, sinking into the chair closest to the door. She nodded wordlessly, scribbling the order down, and nodded to the men. “Where’s Cobblepot?”

“Probably dealing with some issues at the Lounge, he’ll be here.” Falcone waved off, not looking particularly interested in what the younger man was saying.

“Mr. Russo should be in shortly, I’ll be back with your drinks soon.” She then walked out of the room, fighting the urge to run as she heard them begin to converse, voices soon muffled by the heavy wooden door.

Once the drinks were done, she grabbed another two baskets of bread and walked back, loud heels most likely announcing her arrival, as she nudged the door open and stepped carefully inside, seeing the table was now full. The last two patrons had joined. Marty sat at the head of the table, a cigar in his hand, and at the other end, Oswald Cobblepot, aka “The Penguin”, was watching the man carefully.

Upon her entrance, the five sets of eyes flickered her way, and four sets returned back to their business. But one continued to watch her, observing her as she entered. She passed the drinks around, including the martini that Marty always had, and she pulled her notepad back out as she approached the last mob boss, pen poised on the paper.

“What can I get you to drink, sir?”

“Cognac, love, VSOP.” He answered in a thick, Cockney accent, but she could feel his eyes on her face, narrowed. Out of the corner of her own, it was hard to read his expression. Suspicion…no… curiosity, maybe? Doing her best to brush it off, she looked up around the table.

“And can I get you gentlemen anything else to eat?”

“Some more dip for the breadsticks, Leya. Thank you.” Marty told her, waving a hand in a brush-off motion that said, _leave._ Nodding, she took her cue with gratitude, and left the room as gracefully as she could, feeling a pair of eyes boring into her back as she left.

Upon dropping off the order to Andy, she lifted her leg to scratch an itch on her calf as she waited, taking a deep breath. The backroom was stuffy, seeing as there was only one vent and no windows, and even the smokey, bar-scented air of the main dining area smelled was fresher. Luckily, Andy was a tad backed up, meaning she got a quick, five minute break before she had to go back. She took the chance to sit on a chair, giving her aching feet a break and scratching her leg. Things were going well, and they would continue that way, so long as she stayed quiet and was seen, not heard. It was an old saying that drove her crazy, but when it came to her survival, she was willing to make an exception.

Once the drink was done, she grabbed some more mozzarella dip and headed to the back again, glancing at the clock and realizing that she only had another three hours on her shift. With a sigh of relief, she prayed the men would only want one or two more rounds as she gently nudged the door open, catching the middle of their conversation. 

“-and the Bat isn’t stupid. Neither are his little birds, for that matter. We’re better off storing the bills in the armory.” Maroni was saying. His words were clearly met with some mixed reactions, since the tension in Black Mask’s shoulders showed he didn’t particularly agree, Falcone looked thoughtful, Marty looked thoughtful _and_ nervous, and Penguin just looked a little bored. Once she entered, she felt his eyes on her again, but she did her best to avoid his gaze as she set the drink down, noticing the black smudge of a tattoo under the sleeve of his coat.

“Thank you, love.” He told her smoothly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded set of bills. “There you are.”

She didn’t stop to count the bills, (which she never did, it was bad manners and even the slightest suggestion to these men that they might be stiffing her would set them off) but she could have sworn she spotted a fifty, and she took them, nodding.

“Thank you very much, sir.”

“So polite, this one.” Maroni spoke up again, and looked her over before turning back to Marty. “Where’d you find her, Marty?”

“Careful, Sal,” Falcone chided, “she looks about the same age as your son.”

The younger man held up his hands, looking affronted. “Hey, who said I was hitting on her? Beautiful young woman, I can’t point it out?” He winked at Leya. “It’s just a compliment, sweetheart, you know that, right?”

_Yeah, right, you perverted fuck._ “Of course, sir.”

Penguin snorted from his seat, taking a puff of his cigar. “You’re old enough to be her father, Sal, so why don’t you leave the poor girl alone?”

“What, Cobblepot, like you’ve never gotten friendly with a younger woman?” Maroni sneered, and Penguin rolled his eyes.

“I like blondes, you cretin, and I also like my women a little older than barely legal.” He turned to Leya, “No offense, dearie.”

“None taken, sir.” She responded, watching the exchange carefully. It wasn’t really offensive, she was barely twenty-two, and was aware that she still looked like a teenager. Marty nodded at her, still looking somewhat anxious.

“Please wait outside the door for a few minutes, Leya, we’ll be done soon.”

“What, is this talk making you a bit tense, there, Marty?” Penguin asked, eyes narrowing in the younger man’s direction. “I’d think you’d be fully invested, seeing as it’s you the fuzz are after, as well.”

“Oh, I-I-of course! We’re just short-staffed, so I would like Leya to-“

“Unless, of course,” Black Mask spoke up, piercing gray eyes turning to the club owner, “you already ratted us out.”

Marty spluttered, his face beginning to look pale, and Leya took several steps back. The tension in the air was rising, and for some reason, she could read Penguin’s face and body language perfectly. She just _knew_ he was itching to punish Marty, she could see it in his face. He looked _pissed._

“Yes, that’s one hole in this whole thing,” Falcone joined in, throwing back the last bit of his drink before he continued, “the cops seemed to know our money was on those trucks, even though we’d already gotten them onto the false trail.” His look darkened, and as Leya continued to back up, she saw Marty’s bodyguards, Johnny and Austin, step closer. At this movement, the other’s own protection detail tensed, faces solemn. “And we already established, when we were setting up the plan, that only someone on the inside could have let them know.”

Marty was at a loss for words, and the waitress could see beads of sweat beginning to break out across his forehead. Her breathing hitched slightly, and she saw Penguin shift, his head tilting just slightly in her direction at the movement.

_Had he heard that?_

“See, none of us spoke up.” Black Mask chimed in, tilting his head dangerously at Marty. “Cause we were all together the night before the police raid, discussing our plan at the Lounge.” He nodded at Penguin, then looked back to Marty. “Which only leaves you.”

For a second, the man in question’s face seemed to switch to green, then white, then red, then back to white again. It probably would have been comical if his life wasn’t in danger, and Leya watched carefully, back against the far wall of the room.

“Please, I-I,” he stumbled out, sounding close to tears, “I would never-“

“You’re lying, Marty.” Penguin accused firmly, looking around the table. “And I think we all know what happens to snitches.”

It happened so fast, Leya almost didn’t catch it. Austin and Johnny both yanked their handguns out, moving to point them, but Falcone and Penguin’s men were faster. They were already firing, suppressors keeping the noise softer than normal as they planted two shots each into the men’s chests. The noise made her jump, and her hand reflexively moved to ghost over her own thigh. Of course, nothing was there, but at the sound of familiar gun fire, her hands felt empty without a weapon, and it made her chest tighten.

Both men dropped, and the bodyguard’s stored their guns away while Maroni motioned to his goons to move forward, grabbing a cowering Marty by his arms.

“Wait, wait!” He cried in panic, struggling, “wait, you can have anything you want! My club, my house, p-please don’t kill me!”

“Oh, we won’t Marty, not yet.” Falcone assured casually, moving to stand. “But don’t worry, you’ll be begging for it, soon.” He nodded at the men, and they lugged the now crying man outside. Leya watched his struggling form be carried out, the muscles in her shoulders wound tight enough to bounce a coin off. Maroni, Falcone, and Black Mask all nodded to her, dropping some money onto the table, before bidding each other goodbye and walking out. It wasn’t until he spoke that she realized Penguin was the only one left.

“Alright, there, love?”

She looked up at his voice, and nodded, swallowing. “Yes, sir, just surprising.”

“You didn’t look all that shocked at the gunfire.” He noted, watching her with intrigue. “How long have you lived in Gotham, now?”

“Only a few years, sir.” She told him, doing her best to keep her answers vague. She never gave out more information than she needed to. “I’ve been around.”

Her answer seemed to amuse him, for whatever reason, and he laughed uproariously, finishing his drink and snubbing out his cigar. “Well, it would appear you’re out of a job, now, yeah?”

The realization hit her with the force of a brick to the chest, and she realized he was right. Fuck, what did she do now? She didn’t actually have any references now, and this job wasn’t technically legal, especially when it came down to taxes.

“Well, lucky for you, darling, I happen to be in need of a new staff member.” His words, if anything, completely shocked her. She looked back up at him, (or, directly across, seeing as he wasn’t that tall) to see him watching her carefully. “I’ll need someone with experience in serving some, _interesting_ characters.” He looked around, sneering at the atmosphere, “And I can promise you it’ll pay better than this dump.”

Normally, she would have said no. Working for an underground business these past few years had been stressful enough, and why would she subject herself to that again? She wouldn’t, she couldn’t. She wasn’t going to…right?

But the more she thought about, the more she wondered if it was the best idea to turn down such an offer. As far as paperwork went, she didn’t have any experience, no real references, no true income, and an expired food handlers license. Should she really be turning her nose up at this?

Biting her lip, she turned back to Penguin and nodded. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

A smile grew onto the older man’s face, and he nodded. “Excellent, excellent. Now, we’d best get you home before someone places you at the scene of these heathens.” He nodded at one of his men. “Chester here will walk you.”

“No, that’s really-“

“Don’t turn down kindness, love,” Penguin told her, voice dropping a few octaves in a warning, “especially from the likes of me.”

His words chilled her, and she nodded, forcing a smile onto her face as the man followed her to grab her things from the backroom.

It wouldn’t be until later that she realized the black smudge under his coat sleeve she’d seen wasn’t a tattoo; it had been a black outline of a cattleya orchid, her namesake. She also wouldn’t notice until later that he’d been scratching at it with her around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we all know where this is going...  
> I'll be posting the playlist for the story in the next chapter, see ya then!


	3. CHAPTER TWO: COMPULSION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know how they say, "If it won't matter five years from now, don't spend five minutes worrying about it?"   
> What a damn shame this is all going to come back and bite her in the ass long before that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My inspirations for Cataleya's character: Erin from You're Next and Grace from Ready or Not  
> Playlist:  
> People are Strange; by KAAZE, Maddix, Nino Lucarelli  
> Heaven Knows; The Pretty Reckless  
> Teeth; Lady Gaga  
> Sinner: Andy Grammar  
> Hit and Run; LOLO  
> Madness; Ruelle  
> Everything Black; Unlike Pluto, Mike Taylor

The mirror on her bathroom door almost seemed to glare back at her, and Leya bit her lip as she watched her reflection breathe deeply, attempting to calm down her heartbeat thudding in her ears.

It was an actual official uniform; something she wasn’t used to. It was black and white, (of course) and it was a skirt, which made her pull a face. But the fabric was breathable, and the heels were shorter than her other ones, so that was a plus.

It was a silky, white, button up blouse; the buttons ended much too low for her liking, and the black vest she had to wear over it pushed up her cleavage, or what little she had. A short, skin tight black skirt barely covered the tops of her thighs, but the pantyhose she had to wear did a good job of keeping everything in place. The low heeled, black pumps she had to wear were surprisingly comfortable, but she’d put in some heel cushions just to give something extra for her knees. Four years of ruck marches, buddy carries, racing across the sand in thirty pounds of gear and a serious lack of sleep, mixed with a very ineffective diet of opportune MRE’s and energy drinks had left some lasting aches and pains. Namely a bad right knee; not that running around in heels had ever helped.

Her deep brown eyes roamed over to the alarm clock, feeling her anxiety pick up upon seeing the time. 6:30 p.m. She’d have to start walking soon, her shift started at 7:15 and since the Iceberg Lounge was over three miles away, she needed to take the train.

_Come on, Leya, you’ve literally been in firefights and ran under gunfire to drag grown men behind rocks in the desert, but you can’t handle some criminals and escaped asylum patients?_

Well, to be completely fair to herself, pissing one of them off would bring gunfire, or worse.

The twenty-two-year-old shook her head, chuckling at her own thoughts. _Grow some ovaries, chica, you have to make a living!_

Grabbing her black peacoat to cover her revealing outfit, she checked her makeup and hair in the mirror one last time, and walked quietly out the door, locking it softly behind her.

_Besides, how bad could it really be?_

_Bohemian Rhapsody_ floated through her earbuds, the familiar melody calming the blood rushing in her ears. She was in the darker part of Gotham, just a few streets away from the harbor. The familiar, gentle scent of the salt water also did well to calm her down, but she still couldn’t control the elephants in her stomach as she approached the club’s back entrance.

Inside, the bright white lights were still on, but she knew they weren’t open, yet. Women in the same uniform and men in black and white tuxes scurried around, setting up and shouting directions. It was so much more fast-paced than she was used to, and as she rounded the corner, she had to stop.

In front of her was a massive ice sculpture, in the shape of, of course, an iceberg. It was as she got closer that the young girl realized it wasn’t ice, it was glass. The lights in the club were bouncing off of it, throwing around gorgeous, prism-like patterns all around it.

“You must be the new girl.”

The voice made her jump, tensing, and she whirled around to see another woman standing behind her. She was in her late twenties, and she was absolutely stunning. Long, thick blonde hair ran to the middle of her back, the sides pinned up in an intricate but sexy braid. Her own uniform immediately made Leya feel a bit like a teenager, with the way her hips and breasts filled it out. But upon seeing the kind smile on the woman’s face, she felt her insecurity fade. The woman held out her hand.

“I’m Jennifer Fitzgerald, but you can just call me Jen. I’m the manager; the boss told me you’d be coming in.”

“Yeah,” Leya responded, sticking her own hand out and giving it a firm shake, “I’m Leya.”

“Leya,” Jen repeated, “that’s a really pretty name, is it short for something?”

The dark-haired girl shook her head, pressing her lips together. “Mm-mm. My parents were just pretty big fans of Star Wars.”

Jen nodded, laughing a little, “Right; well, let me show you around, boss says you’re supposed to be the new Meeting Room waitress.”

“Uh-huh,” Leya agreed she followed the older woman, “after my old boss got busted for being a snitch, Penguin told me he was looking for one.”

As they walked through a swinging, wood door, Jen’s face dropped into confusion. “Wait, looking?”

“Um, yeah; why?”

The blonde just shook her head, stopping in front of another door. “Nothing, don’t worry about it. I’m just mixed up, it’s a big night tonight.” Twisting the knob, she led the younger girl into a large room, surrounded by lockers. “This is the storage room, you can just store you stuff in here. This is your locker,” she gestured to one right next to the window, “and here’s the key, make sure you don’t lose it, ok?”

Leya nodded, slipping the small, brass key into her shirt pocket; she’d get a chain for it tomorrow.

Her little orientation wasn’t too shocking; she was used to the club and bartending scene, and aside from some fancier drink options and differently located objects, it wasn’t that different. The attitudes, the speed, the requirements. Jen helped her run through the preparations for the backroom, which she learned was just a fancy term for the backroom. 

As the clock counted down the minutes until opening, Jen turned to her.

“Alright, how do you feel?”

Leya nodded, smoothing out her uniform. “Good; how do I look?”

Jen smirked, moving to adjust the girl’s blouse. “ _Very_ sexy; especially with this skin of yours, you’re practically glowing.” Pulling away, her smile twitched. “Leya, you _do_ know what goes down in the Meeting Room, right?”

“I’d assume, from what the boss told me, it’s a lot like where I used to work? You know, some quiet meetings?”

Jen nodded, pressing her lips together and twitching her jaw. “Yeah, technically. But,” she stepped closer, voice lowering, “I don’t think I have to remind you the group that boss does deals with; you’re going to be seeing some scary shit up there. So, just,” she paused, “don’t ever show them anything but your poker face, you got it?”

Leya nodded, some loose curls shifting in front of her face. “Poker face. Trust me, I got it.”

The night started off without incident; some drink deliveries, dodging rowdy dancers, and wiping down tables. But as she was finishing putting away a bin of used glasses, Jen nodded at the stairs.

Some of the ‘guests’ were already there.

Taking a deep breath, Leya climbed the steps, smoothing out her skirt. Schooling her expression, she pulled out her notepad and slipped inside.

The Meeting Room was much swankier than the backroom at Marty’s; it consisted of plush, black cushioning around a large, round table. The table was black and white marble, the swirls and glossy finish glinting in the low light. A set of windows, which were actually a one-way mirror, faced the club, showing the inhabitants everything that was happening on the floor below them.

And it already held several guests.

A gorgeous, dark-haired woman, roughly Jen’s age, was perched in one corner. Her manicured nails tapped against the marble finish, watching the dancing crowd and pulsing lights beneath her, the loud music making the floor vibrate ever so slightly. Her black hair was cut short, a pixie style, but it looked so gorgeous on her. The dark locks framed her heart-shaped face perfectly, with two bright, almond green eyes catching everything around her. Her skin was pale, but absolutely flawless, as well as her long, muscled limbs. She was clad in dark, leather pants and a skimpy black top, red lips pursed thoughtfully.

Across from her were two figures that almost made Leya freeze. Both were tall men, with brown hair and roughly the same age, the one with darker brown hair slightly older than the other. One sat in a ratted brown suit, back straight, also watching the people below them. He had blue eyes, bright enough to set her on edge. His brown hair was tangled, nearly reaching his shoulders. A set of thick, black glasses were perched on his nose, and she couldn’t help but read his expression in a rather pompous way, like he thought himself above everyone else.

The other man had darker hair, cut shorter and closer to his head, styled much neater. His suit was a dark, forest green, the white collar and black tie beneath it nearly pristine. Propped next to him was a cane; half of it was showing, the other half hidden by the table. She spied a matching bowler hat next to him, and her eyes caught a glimpse of two things: a question mark on top of the cane, and a ratted, burlap sack with two holes for eyes and one for a mouth cut out.

She was in the room with Riddler, Scarecrow, and a woman that she didn’t know, but was still intimidated by.

Despite her near silent entrance, all three sets of eyes zeroed in on her before she could even shut the door. Keeping her shoulders back, but her gaze towards the table, she pulled out her notepad and pen, softly clearing her throat.

“Good evening; my name is Leya. Mr. Cobblepot will be here soon, may I get you some drinks?”

“Leya?” The woman repeated, the name rolling smoothly over her tongue. She looked over the younger girl. “You must be new; I don’t remember seeing you before.”

“This is my first day.”

The three seemed to find that somewhat amusing, as they all smirked, and the woman nodded.

“Well, let’s not make it too difficult on you, right? I’ll just have a martini, hun.”

As she scribbled the order down, she felt the other two sets of eyes boring into her. Looking up, she made the mistake of meeting the particularly blue ones she’d been avoiding.

“You’re awfully young,” Scarecrow rasped, sitting forward. “How old are you, Leya?”

Her age was the one answer she knew would be stupid to lie about, so it was the one question she always answered truthfully. “Twenty-two.”

“Hmm,” the insane criminal hummed quietly, then sat back. “Whiskey; whatever’s oldest.”

As she wrote it down, the next order wasn’t an order at all, but exactly what she should have expected.

“What comes once in a minute, twice in a moment, but never in a thousand years?”

“The letter ‘m’.”

The answer flew out of her mouth before she even realized she was speaking, and both parties froze, slowly looking up at the other. One in shock, the other in apprehension.

_Oh, fuck, is he going to kill me?_

But to her surprise, he merely titled his head at her, eyes narrowed.

“Much more clever than your other servers, aren't you? Awfully curious." He muttered, then sat back, undoing a button on his jacket. “I’ll have a vodka, neat.”

Shoulders still tense, she nodded, forcing a polite smile onto her face. “Excellent choice, sir. I’ll be back shortly.”

Once she had stepped back out, a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding released itself, and she started down the steps, scratching the back of her neck and rubbing it. The whole interaction suddenly made her feel like she’d just slept on her pillow wrong for a week.

Drinks now in hand, she started up the steps, knowing that several more guests would already be there; Penguin said he’d be expecting at least five tonight, and she prayed they would arrive soon. She didn’t want to be in that room longer than she had to.

As gracefully as she could with a tray of full glasses in her hand, she opened the door and nudged it with her hip, slipping through and making sure to close it behind her. Cobblepot had explicitly instructed her that no one in the club below could see into the room. Of course, the chances of them seeing past the wall that was planted in front of the door that led down a small hallway and then went into the room would prevent that, but she wasn’t about to get her ass reamed on her first night for being negligent.

Inside, she could see that the other four had already joined. Penguin sat at the head of the table, eyes moving to her as she entered. She could already see more figures at the table, and it was enough to make her heart both skip a beat and drop to her stomach, if such a thing was possible.

To his right was a large man, clad in a black, sleeveless shirt and black cargo pants, complete with combat boots, was seated next to her new boss, his own eyes raising to see who had joined them. He had on a black and white mask that looked a lot like the luchador one’s she saw on TV when she was still young. But his eyes, a light shade of brown, nearly hazel, were watching her with the same curious, yet slightly confused look that the others had been giving her earlier.

Next to him was a woman, just as beautiful as the dark-haired one, but in a different way. She was a little taller, and maybe a few years older. Dark red hair that ran nearly to her hips, and skin that was tinted…green? Was it the lighting from the club? No, it couldn’t be that severe, could it? But her eyes, now _those_ were green; as dramatic as it sounded, they looked like the forest surrounding Machu Pichu from her visit when she was seven. She was dressed in a red, button down shirt, the first few buttons undone to show ample cleavage that made Leya shift the tray slightly in front of her own.

_Was that fucking Poison Ivy?_

“Ah, here are our drinks,” Penguin announced, smiling at the girl as she entered. “Thank you very much, love.” He told her as she handed him his Cognac; Jen told her it was always the drink their boss had during his meetings. If she had to guess, Leya would say it was due to having to deal with the people he delt with.

“You’re welcome, sir.” She responded quietly, moving to set the dark-haired woman’s drink down. She nodded at the young girl, who was doing her best to keep her eyes away from the other’s as she set their drinks down, then moved to stand before the two newcomers.

“What can I get you to drink?”

“Sex on the Beach, please.” The redhead responded, watching the girl’s movements with an intrigued smirk on her face. Scribbling the order down, Leya switched her gaze to the man.

“And you, sir?”

“Gold rum _, senorita.”_ He responded in a deep, graveling voice, and her eyes flew up to meet his, feeling just the barest amount of familiarity and relief at the sound of her first language.

_“¿Tu hablas español?”_

The masked man nodded, and she spotted his lips twitching _. “Sí niña, me crié en Santa Prisca_.” He nodded at her, _“¿Y tu?”_

This was her first sign that something was wrong.

She opened her mouth to tell him Texas, like she told everyone. If there was one lesson she had learned in Gotham, it was that not everyone could be trusted with details of your past. She would tell them her name was Leya, she was from Texas, and that she lived with her mother throughout her childhood until she joined the military. None of it was a technical _lie,_ but it also wasn’t the full truth. A perfect middle-ground.

So, when our dear protagonist opened her mouth to say, “Eagle Pass, Texas,” I’m sure you could imagine her surprise when what came out of her mouth was, _“Cartagea, Colombia; pero crecí en Chiclayo, Perú.”_

She had just told him, what; the first fifteen percent of her fucking backstory?

Leya froze; as in, actually froze. Pen midway through writing down the word _rum_ when it stopped, and she raised her eyes to meet his in shock.

But none of the other’s seemed to notice how startled she was; the man was nodding at her, looking like he had just confirmed a suspicion, while the others were chuckling.

“You have the Peruvian coast dialect, _chica_ ,” he agreed, “but I wanted to be sure.”

“Ozzy, where did you find such a cute little thing?” Ivy asked smoothly, looking thoroughly amused. Penguin shrugged, taking a large sip of his drink.

“She was working with Marty; dumb fucker got busted for trying to rat out the lot, so we had to take him down.” He nodded at her. “Leya here was about to be sacked, and I needed a waitress.”

“What happened to that young man, Alex?” The other woman at the table wondered aloud, “I personally thought he was doing fine.”

More confusion seemed to fester in Leya’s gut as Penguin only scoffed. “Please, just because we got our drink within the hour and he only spilled twice doesn’t make him a good server.”

“I’ll be right back with your drinks.” Leya told the pair in front of her quietly, nodding at her boss and quickly making for the door. She could feel several of them watching her, but the conversation at the table continued until she had shut the door behind her, numbly moving down the stairs.

_What the_ fuck _was that, Leya?! You’re suddenly giving away parts of your past to escaped Arkham inmates? What’s next, you’re going to tell them your birthday and social security number?!_

But she could barely focus, she was so horrified and confused. What happened just now wasn’t something she could even _explain;_ it was like the words flew out of her mouth, and by the time she even realized she was speaking, the sentence was nearly over. Just like-

_Just like with Riddler?_

That’s right, it had happened when he asked her that question, that riddle. She had been compelled to answer, like she had no other choice.

“Hey, Leya! I need those drink orders!”

The sound of the bartender’s voice, (who was named Mason) cut through her thoughts and brought her harshly back into reality. Shaking her head, she handed him the slip of paper, bending down to scratch and rub her ankle. These heels had felt comfortable at first, but now they suddenly seemed to be causing her even more discomfort than her old ones.

_Great, one more thing I needed tonight,_ she groaned inwardly. She watched Mason pour and mix the drinks, resisting the urge to bite her nails. _Maybe I shouldn’t have quit smoking; I could really use a cigarette right now._

“Alright, Leya,” the dark-haired man announced, sliding the tray towards her with a wink, “you’re doing great, alright? Don’t worry, shift’s almost over.”

To her surprise, he was right. A glance at the small clock just behind the bar told her it was a quarter to three; her shift would be ending when the club shut down at five a.m.

Mentally walking herself through a pep-talk, she grabbed the tray, shooting Mason a grateful smile. “Thanks, man.”

He gave her a friendly wave of his towel as she headed back up the stairs, humming a random tune in her head as she climbed.

As she entered, she caught the very end of their conversation, which seemed to be growing heated.

“All I’m saying,” the Riddler was stressing, “is that the Bat and the birds are on high alert right now; the breakout had increased their patrolling by nearly twenty percent. If we just lie low until Mr. Brooding, Dark Knight locks up a few heavy hitters like Joker or Quinn, then they’ll start to fall back. _That’s_ when we make our move.”

“Excellent plan, Nygma,” Penguin was rolling his eyes, nearly finished with his drink, (thank goodness she’d grabbed him and the other’s another round). “Why didn’t any of us think of that?”

“He’s got a point, Eddie,” the dark-haired woman was pointing out as Leya began to distribute the drinks, “and more importantly, do you really think you can outsmart him?”

“Well, we all know what _you’ve_ been doing with him, Kyle.” The green-clad man sneered back, but the woman, Kyle, leaned forward, eyes blazing.

“Careful, Nygma. I nearly ripped your throat out once, I’ll happily do it again.”

“Enough!” Penguin’s voice cut through, sounding annoyed. The glass over his eye was bouncing light off from the club, almost highlighting the irritated look on his face. “All this bickering will get us nowhere; in case you’ve forgotten, I require civility when we meet like this. I need to figure out how to move my damned money in time without that God forsaken Nightwing always on my arse!”

The mood in the room changed slightly once she had finished distributing the drinks; it seemed to lighten ever so slightly, Leya would guess that alcohol did that to an individual. She wouldn’t know, of course. It had been easily five years since her last drink, and she had no plans on changing that anytime soon.

“Look, we need to be smart.” Ivy spoke up, scratching her right shoulder before picking up her drink. “Batman is known for his paranoia; all we need to do is convince him there is no reason to be. I vote we continue, but keep it small. So long as we act like we normally do, he’ll have no reason to believe that anything is amiss.”

Right as she sat Crane’s new drink in front of him, he turned, hand accidentally catching the rim of his glass. The crystal tilted, liquid beginning to spill over the top, and it all went in slow motion after that.

As eyes turned towards the noise, Leya’s hand was already moving. Her fingers were right in front of the glass, thought they had originally been by the table’s edge, and she grabbed it, keeping it from falling again and setting it upright, a small splash landing on the back of her hand.

The conversation stopped, and Crane turned to her, blue eyes attempting to see into the very back of her brain.

“Excellent reflexes.” He commented, watching her carefully. Reining in her own surprise of how quickly she reacted, Leya nodded, forcing her lips to turn up into her regular, polite smile. That gunfire from yesterday must still have her on edge.

“I’ve been a server for several years now, sir, it happens.” She responded indifferently, and he nodded, but his face didn’t relax. The conversation at the table resumed, followed by more bickering over the Batman, and Leya grabbed a cloth, wiping off the alcohol absentmindedly before wiping down the table and grabbing her tray, ensuring no one else required anything before she quickly left the room.

Unfortunately, she didn’t notice that the alcohol had eroded away some of her concealer, as well as did her wiping with the rag, and Crane had caught the top of a mark on her hand. It wasn’t from a pen, it stayed perfectly designed on her skin when she’d scrubbed at it, but it was clear there was more of it underneath some makeup. It looked like a web; or a snowflake, maybe?

_Since when did Oswald require his employees to cover their tattoo’s?_

Turning away from the table, he noticed several servers on the floor beneath him. Sure enough, none of them were covering their body art; if anything, the females were displaying it proudly. So why was their new little waitress attempting to cover hers?

_Just what are you hiding,_ Leya?

At that same time, miles away, someone else was also looking at marks on skin. Only his face was much more grim, blue eyes traveling over the pictures on his screen with as much focus as he possessed, praying he was wrong, but deep down, he knew he wasn’t.

He hardly ever was.

A soft _bing!_ Sounded through the hollow air around him, and behind him, two silver elevator doors opened. It looked strange, seeing as they were surrounded by rock and cave wall, but the man did not turn around as a younger, dark-haired male stepped out of the elevator, looking noticeably less tense than his older counterpart.

“What’s up, Bruce?”

Bruce Wayne, aka the Batman, did not look away from the screen in front of him as Dick Grayson, aka Nightwing, joined him in front of it. “And why are you looking at flower tattoo’s?”

“They’re not tattoo’s, Dick.” He informed his adopted son, voice solemn, “and it’s not just any flower. From what I’ve gathered, it’s a cattleya orchid. They’re native to Colombia, as well as other parts of northern South America.”

Dick nodded, watching the man who had raised him carefully, but Bruce still didn’t elaborate. Finally, Dick shook his head. “Ok, I give. What’s the significance of a flower from South America?”

“What do you know about soulmates?”

“Soulmates?” The young man echoed, chuckling. “Only what they told us in school; I mean, didn’t they die out around the late 1800’s?”

“Yes, the romantic ones did.” Bruce confirmed, turning to look at his ward. “And what about the platonic one’s?”

“I mean, we know even less. The last documented set was in the 1400’s; there’s rumors some of them were burned in the Salem Witch trials, but no one could ever find proof.”

At the end of his sentence, the Dark Knight gave his eldest child his full attention, nodding at the screen. “And do you remember what else was said about one of the women who was burned? Not only did she have platonic marks…”

…but she had several.” Dick finished, nodding. “Yeah, I remember having to include that on my essay in eighth grade.” His gaze flickered back to the screen, and then his eyes widened, turning back to Bruce slowly. “Wait, wait, you’re not telling me…”

Without responding, Bruce hit a button on the glowing keyboard in front of him. Underneath each picture of the black flower, a name popped up. Each one gave Dick more anxiety than the last, some even were hard to believe. He turned to his adopted father again, shaking his head.

“Bruce, Chain’s aren’t-they’re gone, they’re not-“

“But are they?” Bruce asked rhetorically. “This is from a set of files, confiscated from Hugo Strange. He’d been noting that some of his patients had the same tattoo, just in different places, but none of them appeared to be involved in any gang activity. Then he began referencing old works, old journals. One belonged to a physician in Greece, who spoke of a young woman. She came to him, panicked, begging him to do something about the marks that covered her skin. When he told her his hypothesis, she killed herself.”

“So, you’re saying,” Dick started, still staring at the screen in horror, “that somewhere out there, half of the Rogue’s gallery is on the surface of someone’s _skin_?”

Bruce nodded, eyes narrowed, the smallest hint of worry shadowing his face. “Yes. And if we want to ensure their safety, I think it’s best we find them before they do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awwww shit, now we're really getting somewhere. Next up: Leya meets the rest of her marks and discovers the role her actions are about to play.


	4. CHAPTER THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nexilis: Woven together; intertwined. It was Latin, and it would be such a beautiful word if she didn't know the true meaning

The early Gotham air seeped into her lungs, bringing in scents of gasoline, secondhand smoke, heaters burning off dust, and hotdog stands. The pale, early light of morning was just poking over the horizon as Cataleya left her car, a purple hoodie and some black sweatpants swamping her petite frame. Crossing her arms, the young woman jogged across the parking lot, slipping into the old building through the backdoor and into the warmth.

The studio had been a rare find for Leya; one she truly thought she’d never be able to match. A large room, two walls across from each other lined with mirrors and a long, polished wooden pole about waist height ran across them. She knew the front door was still locked; Yvonne didn’t start teaching classes until nine.

Dance had been a passion of hers ever since Santi’s death. One night, while her mother was tucked away in their apartment, crying herself to sleep or staring blankly at a wall, and her father was at the local bar drinking himself into a coma, she went out for a walk. In the warm, late summer air, she’d stumbled upon the old ballet studio; Emilio had just been finishing some choreography. The first time she saw him leap in the air, she fell in love. All she could think was, _I want to fly like that!_

It was hard work; her mother was horrified at the idea of her doing anything remotely risky or athletic, but in the wake of the families first tragedy, Leya wanted nothing else. So, after her mother fell asleep early, she grabbed her small bag of second-hand dance clothes and borrowed ballet slippers before she walked two miles, alone, to the dance studio. And every time she moved, every time she felt that music in her veins, controlling her muscles, she suddenly felt like everything was… _less._ Less terrible, less scary, less oppressive.

When she got to Gotham, Yvonne was just about to quiet Marty’s. The two became good friends and had struck up a deal: if Leya cleaned the studio every morning for free before classes began, she got access to it every weekday. A hell of a deal, if the girl said so herself.

Walking over to the large, silver stereo in the front of the room, she dropped her bag, pulled out her phone, and started the music.

It was so easy to just get lost for two hours. With the warmups, the jumps, the spins, and the mandatory bit of improv she always did at the end. It just felt like submerging yourself into warm, soundless water after such a stressful time; just listening to the music and following its beat as the world faded to nothing around you. Finally, she was in her last set of pirouettes as the song came to an end, and she stuck her foot back, throwing up a hand and ending in a pose.

A cold droplet of sweat traced her spine, and Leya straightened from her stance to begin her cooldown. But as she did, her eyes caught sight of the marks on her skin.

She walked, steps quiet against the wood, and stopped directly in front of the mirror, staring at the girl in front of her. The eleven marks were insanely difficult to ignore, even if you did first mistake them for tattoos. There was just something about them that drew your eyes in, that _commanded_ your attention.

Leya hated them.

From the time she was young, she looked forward to meeting her platonic soulmates. Her parents had no idea how to handle the destiny that most likely awaited their eldest child. Being a Chain didn’t come with an instruction manual, but being so young and naïve, she had assumed that her soulmates would love her, adore her, always watch out for her. She had a guaranteed family, right?

But now, as she got older, she began to see them as a curse. Who would want to be with her, love her, marry her with _these?_ When she met her mates, how would they feel about her being a Chain? It seemed like such a small thing, but it truly dictated her life. From what very little information there was on Chain’s, it sounded like the people whose marks covered the surface of her skin were powerful; powerful enough to constantly be in her life, never leaving, never allowing her to have a life that was her very own.

She didn’t _want_ a random group of people making decisions for her; she didn’t want someone to only care about her because of some cosmic decision. She wanted a healthy, happy life _alone_. With people _she_ chose, that _she_ liked, that _she_ wanted around her.

That same day, once she was showered and had gotten a few hours of sleep, Leya found herself in the village. She liked browsing there. The yells of the street vendors, smells of fish being brought in off the boats and the hustle and bustle of the crowd reminded her of home, even just in the slightest.

As she walked down the street, a hanging sign caught her eye, making her pause.

_Crystal Ball Books._

Tilting her head, the young woman walked inside, breathing in the scent of the old pages. It was a small store, filled with dusted shelves that were stuffed with books. She recognized some of the titles, but others weren’t anything she’d seen in other, more popular bookstores. A bell above the door rang loudly when she entered, the shrill tinkling shattering the silence inside, but nobody appeared to be there. It was completely empty.

Walking forward, she reached a hand up, running the pads of her fingers softly over the titles. Nothing was really catching her eye, and she continued to wander the shop out of boredom. Maybe she could get a hold of Jen tonight and they could do a girl’s night again-

_Wait._

She paused, blinking, then backed up several steps. Her eyes went to the spine of a book that was just a few inches above her head, and she reached up, fingers curling around it and sliding it off the shelf.

_Marked: Platonic and Romantic Marks_

Under the title was a sentence that made her breath catch, and she ran her fingers over the words to try and smudge of any dust or dirt that may have been playing tricks on her.

_Chains: Abandoned History or Urban Legends?_

“See something you like, sweetie?”

Leya jumped so violently she nearly dropped the book but managed to keep a grip on it as she whirled around.

Standing behind her was a woman; roughly seventies, with long gray dreadlocks that reached her hips. She was covered in all sorts of strange jewelry. Leather chords covered in weird seashells, chunky bracelets, ears full of silver and gold studs, and several feathery necklaces layering her neck and chest. Her dress was brushing the floor, as well. It was colorful checkers, none of the colors complimenting or matching the other, and chunky brown sandals. But the most startling part was her eyes: they were green, a shockingly bright shade that made Leya want to squirm.

“Um, yes.” The younger woman confirmed quietly, eyes flicking around as she wondered where this woman had come from. “Do you have any others like this?”

The woman stretched out a leathery, wrinkled hand and took the books, eyes flitting over the cover. “I’m afraid not, dear. Literature on soul marks is hard to come by these days; normally all you can find are a few scholarly papers from historians.”

Leya tried not to deflate, knowing it had been a long shot. After twenty-three years on this earth, she’d learned that soul marks weren’t really part of rational conversation. It was like trying to bring up unicorns to adults, most people treated it as a joke or an urban legend. The fact that this book existed almost seemed too good to be true.

Speaking of…

“How much?” She asked, holding it up to the woman.

That night, the young girl curled up onto her couch, TV on to offer some comforting background noise, before she breathed deeply and opened the book. It was old, that much was clear by the language of the text and the style of the books binding, but it was also clear it hadn’t been touched. The binding crackled slightly as she opened it. The stiffness of the pages suggesting it had sat, unopened, for years. She swallowed as the pages turned, brown eyes drinking in the words on the page.

She skipped the romantic soulmate portion; she knew hers were platonic. Romantic marks were colored, platonic ones were black, gray, or both.

The book offered some pretty helpful information, like discouraging certain myths. Like you couldn’t read your soulmates mind, feel their pain, and your mark didn’t burn when they were around. Which was a shame, because that would make her life a hell of a lot easier. There were some distinguishing characteristics, though, such as the ability to guess your soulmates behavior, understand their rationale without knowing them for a very long time, and reading into their emotions. It was also incredibly difficult to lie to your soulmate, but not impossible. Normally, doing so would bring on some type of illness, like a cold or nausea, and wouldn’t lessen until you admitted whatever truth you were burying.

She continued to read through, but soon, her page turning got slower. Her eyes grew heavy. The space heater in the corner made the air feel pleasantly warm, like a large sleeping bag. Before she could stop it, Leya drifted off to sleep on the couch, wrapped like a burrito in her blanket. But had she continued to read, she may have gotten to the section on Chains.

And maybe she would have noticed some alarming red flags before she went to work the next night.

It was four weeks after her first shift at the Lounge when shit finally got close to the fan. It didn’t hit it *yet* but don’t worry, reader, we’re getting there.

For four weeks, she did regular cocktail waitress duties. None of the bosses ‘friends’ showed up for that time, and it was a blessing. Mostly, she helped with drink deliveries, and helped clean up the bar before and after the shifts. Another job of hers was always making sure Penguin had what he needed. Bringing drinks, food, towels. He even asked her for advice once; easily the weirdest damn moment of her life, and that included her tour in Iraq.

It was simple, really. As she set his dinner onto his desk, he’d looked up and off-handedly asked her if having more men present during a cargo exchange was a better security choice, or fewer seemed less suspicious. Unsure what he would think of her answer, she chose a safe middle ground and said it might be wise to have a lower number of men in uniform and at the front, but have others standing by in less conspicuous places. In cars, standing at payphones, waiting at bus stops, etc. He’d looked at her, actually seeming mildly impressed, before grunting out a thank you and shooing her out of the room.

The book always sat on her bedside table, glaring at her. She knew she should read the Chain section, but every time she got there, she would find herself hesitantly closing the book. As if she was afraid of whatever information or warnings were waiting for her. Other than that, though, things seemed to fall into a mostly smoothed out routine.

But if Leya had learned just one thing in her short twenty-three years, it was that whenever you got comfortable, that was when you were headed for a drop.

It started off as a normal shift; she came in, helped get the bar wiped down, and started messing around with Mason and Jen. In the middle of laughing at a joke Mason had told her as she set up a fancy array of wine glasses that she heard it.

“Leya!”

Penguin’s cockney accent boomed across the club, silencing the chatter throughout the main area. Everyone straightened immediately and cleared a path, parting like the Red Sea as the heavyset man, still clad in his fur-lined coat, approached the young woman. Schooling her face, she stepped forward.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m going to be having some guests tonight.” He informed her gruffly, but something was off. She couldn’t explain how, she just knew. Looking at him, she could tell he was…anxious? No, that wasn’t it. Was it?

“Yes, sir, I’ll make sure the Meeting Room is prepared.”

“I also need you to be on your A game tonight, love.” He informed her, staring at her face with a hard look. “These guests I’m having; they’re less forgiving then I am when it comes to mistakes, so there will be none. Make sure you’re prepared and ready for anything, understood?”

She nodded, a wavy piece of black hair falling into her face. “I understand, Mr. Cobblepot.”

He nodded at her, then did something that surprised just about everyone, including her. As he went to walk past her, he reached out a hand and patted her shoulder, (rather roughly, she might add; he nearly knocked her over). “’Atta girl.” He commented lowly before waddling off on his cane/umbrella, his bodyguards following.

Silence followed him until he had ascended to his office above the club, and as everyone slowly got back to their duties, Leya didn’t miss the looks they were shooting her, whispering quietly among themselves. Doing her best to ignore them, she turned back to the bar, now gathering supplies for the Meeting Room. However, she stopped when she saw Mason staring at her, his jaw nearly on the floor.

“What?”

“It’s just- I don’t think I’ve ever seen the boss act like that before.” He stated, bewildered. Leya shrugged.

“So, he got a little friendly with a female waitress, that’s never happened before?”

“No,” Mason stated firmly, shaking his head, “he gets ‘friendly’ with the female staff members all the time. But, and don’t take any of these the wrong way, A) You’re not really his type, he likes tall blondes with boob jobs, and B) That wasn’t ‘friendly’ behavior, that was…” he trailed off, then shook his head again, this time as if to clear out some confusion. “Well, I’m not entirely sure what that was.”

Leya rolled her eyes, lifting her leg to scratch her calf, “Well, whatever it was, I’ve got to prepare a private meeting for what seems to be a large group of the criminally insane, so,” she winked at him, “wish me luck.”

The table was wiped down, the seats had been vacuumed, the floors swept and mopped, and the one-way mirror had been cleaned so thoroughly it almost looked like the wall was missing.

Standing at the doorway to the stairs, Leya adjusted her hair and uniform as she surveyed the room, hoping it was up to the standard. Whoever was coming to make her boss this anxious wasn’t anybody she truly wanted to meet, but if she could just get through tonight, maybe they wouldn’t show up again for a while.

Wishful thinking? Yeah, probably.

Grabbing the bucket of cleaning supplies, she started down the steps when a familiar voice stopped her.

“Leya!”

Penguin limped up toward her, still flanked by his bodyguards. Chester and David were their names. Chester was ok, she’d learned on the walk back to her apartment that one night that he didn’t talk unless he was answering a direct question. David was just weird, cause not only did he not talk, he stared. Not in a perverted or creepy way, it was just…odd.

The club owner stopped in the room beside the younger woman, looking around. He would never give her too much outright praise, but she’d done an excellent job. He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking at first, hiring her. The Penguin didn’t do charity. But it had been a random impulse, one that had clearly paid off. As well as the fact that he enjoyed her company; she was a quiet little thing, keeping her head down, but he saw how smart she was. He saw the cogs turning behind that set of dark brown eyes, and it had been amusing to see her go face-to-face with the worst Gotham had to offer. And she hadn’t even cried! That was more than he could say for the rest of his staff, male servers included.

Leya was quite the mystery.

“Excellent.” He told her gruffly, and Leya nodded, breathing a soft sigh of relief. He began to limp towards the seat at the head of the table, motioning towards her. “Please get started on my cognac, love, I’m going to need quite a bit for tonight.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

It was midnight, now; Penguin’s ‘friends’ would be here soon, if they weren’t already. The warm water ran over Leya’s hands, and she took the opportunity to glance up into the mirror and survey her look.

That new setting spray she’d picked up last week was a God send, just like Jen had told her. Her eye makeup hadn’t moved an inch. But the bags under her eyes were just barely starting to become apparent, and she knew by the end of the shift, she’d be just barely able to make it to her bed before she collapsed.

The warm water felt amazing in the cold bathroom, and she took the opportunity to splash some over the back of her neck. Not worrying about her makeup, of course; that stuff was waterproof, rub proof, etc. It had stayed in place even after she was thrown into the side of a military truck from an explosion about three years ago now, so she doubted anything could take it off.

Still, she found herself tugging at the sleeves of her shirt self-consciously, fingers ghosting over the bare skin where she knew the marks were laying underneath the layer of concealer. If there was one thing she didn’t need, it was the Rogue’s seeing her marks. They may have been insane criminals, but they were _smart_ insane criminals. At least one would connect the dots.

Finally, she shut off the water and took another deep breath before turning and walking out into the hallway, letting the door shut softly behind her.

“Hey, Leya!” Jen’s voice carried over the music, the thumping base nearly vibrating the floor. “Penguin need’s you up there; right now!”

“You got it, Jen!” Leya called back, then took off for the stairs, heels clacking as she speed-walked up the steps. Finally, stopping at the door, she knocked twice before slipping inside.

If she was a fainter, that would’ve been the moment she dropped.

Penguin hadn’t been kidding when he said tonight would be different; if anything, tonight was so much worse.

All eyes turned to her as she stepped in, keeping her eyes trained on the table. But she could see them, all of them, out of her peripherals.

Sitting closest to the door was a man in a suit; he had dark hair, and his suit was clean and clearly very expensive. And it only covered half of his body. The other half was charred, burnt, and missing certain parts, like most of the sleeve. His skin was worse, and just seeing it made her nauseous. Not because it was too gruesome, but because she could remember what it smelled like. The sound of flesh and fat being licked away by flames, the smell of charred flesh that had threatened to choke her. His face looked painful; his lips were stretched and stringy, she could see bits of his skull. There was no eyelid over his eye, and any flesh still intact was blistered, angry, and discolored.

Next to him was another man, one that made her want to scratch at her skin. His body wasn’t burned, but it was still covered in wounds. Scars, lacerations, cuts, whatever you wanted to call them. They lined his body up and down, some of them organized, some of them all over the place. He was completely bald, and she even saw that he was missing eyebrows, too. He was shirtless, and a part of her was positive he was without shoes; his pants were worn and faded, like they’d been worn in harsh conditions for too long.

Across from him was Penguin, who was looking more tense than she’d ever seen him before. He’d already drained his glass, and was clearly twitching for another. He shifted when she entered the room, eyes watching her carefully as she got closer.

Next to him were two people that Leya had spent her two years living in Gotham praying she would never be within spitting distance of. The woman was dressed in clothes that would have made Leya’s stripper cousin shriek with joy; a white, black, and red dress with an impossibly low neckline and pale white face makeup that made her bright red lips stand out more. Her blonde hair was drawn into two ponytails on either side of her head, one dip-dyed red, the other black.

Next to her was an incredibly tall, long-limbed man. His suit was a dark, almost violent purple. The shirt beneath it was green, a color that clashed and hurt her eyes, with a yellow bowtie at his collar. The white face paint wouldn’t have been so bad if it wasn’t for the gruesome, angry red scars that stretched from either side of his mouth and had been painted over with a color that reminded her of fresh blood. His eyes were green, and the crazed light bouncing around almost made her turn around and walk out the door without looking back. He had his arm resting on the top of the booth behind the woman, looking the picture of ease.

Directly across from him and closest to the window facing the club was a man that wasn’t any less intimidating, but just a little weirder. He was clad in a suit, like an astronaut suit, but with some differences that drew any eye in the room. The collar was wide around his neck, and she could see some kind of white mist blowing towards his blue-tinted skin. His lips were chapped and his skin was patchy and blistered. _Hypothermia_ , the old military medic whispered in the back of her mind. Even without the suit, she could tell he was tall. A faint blue light was glowing from a rectangle at the back of the suit, and she could hear the faintest, baring humming sound coming from it.

And last, but certainly not least, was the biggest… _person_ in the room. She could feel his yellow eyes on her, following her like a predator as she walked towards them. His skin was green, as in actually green, and what was most shocking was that it was scaley. Not completely covered in scales, but she could see their outlines on his skin. His mouth was permanently in a grin of sharp, pointed rows of teeth, teeth that looked like they could eviscerate her within less than a minute. He was tall enough that he stood a whole head, shoulders, and then a few extra inches above the man in the silver suit. He was also wide enough that he took up an entire section of the booth. Had she not been careful, she would have tripped over the reptilian tale that extended out of it.

Stopping at the table, she merely pulled out her pen, kept her face blank, and politely asked, “What can I get you to drink?”

To her biggest surprise, this group didn’t converse with her like Penguin’s last group of friends. That didn’t mean, however, that they weren’t paying attention to her.

Whenever she walked in the room to deliver any drinks, she could feel their eyes burning into her skin. She could’ve sworn Killer Croc sniffed her hair as she was walking by, and Victor Zsasz had been muttering something about her skin. The comment had actually startled her enough to check and make sure all her concealer was still in place when she walked out to get them some more food. Two-Face didn’t speak, but any time she passed him a drink or moved near him, he always acknowledged with a grunt or a _‘thanks’_. She guessed being a lawyer gave you certain manners that were hard to break. 

Harley spoke to her, but never in an open-ended way. She was drinking _lots_ of Cosmo’s, and seemed to think Leya’s hair, which was in very long high ponytail, was the prettiest thing she’d ever seen. Whenever Leya was near her, the harlequin would just run her fingers through it and coo.

The Joker was terrifying. He seemed to think her tense shoulders and clear discomfort of being in close proximity to him was hilarious, but he never made any direct comments at her. Just grinned horrifying at her and watched her movements with amusement, like he was observing a doll. The thought made shivers run up her spine.

The night was slowly winding to a close, and Leya had never been so grateful for it to be four in the morning. One more hour, she just had to survive and suck it up for _one more hour_ and then she could go home and sleep until her shift tonight. Her whole body was aching more than usual on this shift, and she was beginning to think she may have been allergic to something at the club, because she was itchy all over. Like hives were breaking out across her skin.

But when she went to deliver the drinks and some more bread, she found herself wishing that was the case.

As she entered the room, balancing her tray, she caught the end of Two-Face’s sentence.

“So, you’re saying that fucking _Strange_ has pictures of the mark? From all of us?”

The word _mark_ startled her, but she ignored it and began distributing the glasses, noting this was Penguin’s fourth glass of cognac. How was such a small man still standing? He was only about two inches taller than her, and she wasn’t that tall.

“We’re all in his files, it won’t take too long before someone figures it out.” Her boss remarked darkly, taking a gulp from his glass. “It’s not something that’s hard to notice, either.”

“How old would they be now? About twenty-three?” Quinn remarked, actually ignoring the Cosmo Leya sat in front of her.

“I could tell you the date is showed up right on the dot: June 30th, 1996 at 1:07 a.m.” Killer Croc growled out, and this time, Leya paused.

_That’s…that’s my birthday._

Something started to grow in her stomach and in her chest. It reminded her of the gas chamber training she’d been put through so many times in the military. Riot gas wouldn’t kill you, but it hurt like a bitch. It stung your eyes and your skin, seeped into your lungs and made them feel like they were on fire while simultaneously making you believe you physically couldn’t breathe.

_Just a coincidence,_ she assured herself, but began quickly finishing her distribution, determined to get out of their eyesight. As she finished, Penguin thanked her half-heartedly and waved her away. She walked quickly to the exit and rounded the corner into the small hallway but paused when her hand was on the doorknob. Call it morbid curiosity or call it pure stupidity; it didn’t matter. She pulled the door open, walked onto the stair landing, and slipped her heels off before sliding back into the room as the door shut behind her. The group seemed to pause, as if wanting to make sure she was gone, before they continued.

“The Bat will probably access the files; Dr. Strange has already been locked up.” Joker half-snarled, and it was almost dizzying how fast his mood shifted from psychotically happy to terrifyingly furious. “That means he’s seen them, and he’s connected the dots.”

“There’s no point.” Fries seemed to be attempting to be the voice of reason, which was working about as well as trying to mop up a flood. “We don’t even know if it’s a girl, a boy, what country they’re on, none of it. For all we know, they could be terminally ill and dying.”

The word seemed to bring a much darker mood to the table, but Leya couldn’t focus on that. She was too busy fighting the panic in her chest, the feeling now feeling like a genuine threat to her safety.

_It’s just a coincidence, it’s just a coincidence, there’s no way…_

“Well, what about what Eddie said?” Penguin demanded, and Leya allowed herself to peer just barely around the corner to watch him as he suddenly rolled up his white-collared shirt and showed them the back of his right wrist. “It’s a flower from Columbia, that probably means whoever they are, they might be there.”

_No._

It was the only word that went through her head. Vaguely, she recalled denial as one of the first steps of grief, but all she could think as she stared at the familiar black shape on Penguin’s wrist was the word that she wanted to believe.

_No._

That wasn’t a cattleya orchid, her name sake. Her name sake wasn’t imprinted on the skin of one of Gotham’s most notorious crime bosses, and he wasn’t telling them that it had popped up on her date of birth exactly.

_No._

The Arkham Rogue’s, some of the worlds darkest, most evil, most notorious and violent criminals weren’t talking about how they all bore the same mark.

_No._

This wasn’t happening. This could not be happening.

Still frozen in shock and horror, she couldn’t move out of the room or run to safety. She could only watch in terror as Zsasz shifted, showing the same black mark right next to his left shoulder blade. How had she not noticed it before? Now unable to stop, her eyes moved towards Croc, the only other shirtless one at the table, and realized that among the scales was a black patch on his right forearm that was almost impossible to see unless you were looking for it.

Now that she was paying attention, she watched the others. Whenever they mention the mark, their fingers would ghost over different parts of their body. For Quinn, it was her right hip. For Dent, it was the left side of his chest. And for Joker, it was his left thigh, just above his knee.

She was going to be sick.

“Bane already said he’s called his contacts down there; no one currently living in any part of Columbia has any discernable marks, at least none that could be traced back to us.” Dent growled, then turned so the scarred side of his face was prominent. “But what if whoever was there has already moved?” His voice went deeper, now to a snarl.

“Then that’s even _worse,_ ” Quinn almost whined, “they could be _anywhere!”_

“No.” Freeze denied, shaking his head. “No, they’re here.”

Leya’s breath caught, and she heard the other’s pause at the table.

“What the fuck do you mean?”

“Can’t you feel it?” The man asked, voice rasping, “Haven’t you felt it for the last few years now? The itching, the tingling, the slight ache. Some days it’s more prominent, other’s it’s not. I read some material, the Chain has that affect. So long as they within the proximity, we’ll feel them.”

“So, let’s use that to hunt them down, then! I’m sick of all the waiting!” Zsasz cried, and Leya almost jumped when the table and glasses banged loudly, like someone had slammed something onto the tabletop.

“We have to be patient.” Penguin growled. “Remember the deal. Once we catch them, we decide if they can live or not. If they’re too much of a liability, we’ll get an assassin to take them out, then kill the assassin to get rid of the Marks Guilt. All will be well.”

Unable to take it anymore, Leya glanced down at her watch. They had fifteen minutes until closing, meaning she had to go back in there and ask them for one final round before she started getting ready to leave. She leaned her head back on the wall, taking several deep breaths.

_Just go in there, be calm, and then get the fuck out, Leya. You got it, you can do it. If you act weird, they’ll know something’s up immediately._

Steeling her gaze, the young woman bent down and slipped her heels back on before leaning forward and knocking twice on the door. Opening it, she allowed it to start to fall closed as she rounded the corner, keeping her face as blank as she was physically capable of.

“What can I get you for your last round?”

“Nothing, Leya.” Penguin grunted, waving a dismissive hand at her. “I’ll have Jen collect your tips tonight, go on and head home.”

Without bothering to argue, she nodded, and turned for the door. This time, she physically opened it, walked out onto the stair landing, and closed it behind her.

And then she ran.

She ran down the stairs, down the hallway, and roughly threw her locker open. Wildly shoving her things into her bag, she took off for the back exit. Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard Jen calling for her, but she spluttered out something about not feeling well and took off outside.

Leya ran and ran; she didn’t stop until she was back in her apartment, slamming the door shut and locking ever deadbolt on there, all four. Then, she ran around and made sure all three windows were locked, checking outside and on the fire escape before shutting her curtains, making sure no one could look through them if they wanted.

Finally, she sank onto her bed, brown eyes glued to the book that was open on her nightstand. It was still on the first page of the Chain section, the section she couldn’t bring herself to read the last few weeks. She only stared at it, unsure if she was going to cry, throw up, or pass out.

She’d found her marks.

And her marks were already planning her assassination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I was doing the Arkham versions of everyone, but when it comes to the Joker, I think I may do Heath Ledgers attitude. I've gotten much better at that version than Mark Hamill's.   
> I know it may seem kind of strange that the Rogue's are willingly discussing their mark, but there's a reason, and it all has to do with the Mark Guilt I mentioned. What is that, I'm sure you're wondering? Find out next chapter!


	5. PERSUASION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is pretty short, but I won't be able to update for at least another week or two after today, so I really wanted to get this out there. Let me know in the comments how you liked it, and thank you for all your kudo's!

Leya had been halfway through packing her second bag when a horrifying thought occurred to her.

_I can’t leave._

The words hit her like a punch from a prize-fighter, flattening the plan that had been forming and growing in her head as she shoved clothes frantically into her bag. Her movements stopped, and she slowly moved over to her bed, sinking down onto it.

_I can’t leave._

If Fries was right, they already sensed her presence. They couldn’t distinguish who it was, but the second she was gone and the feeling left them, they’d be suspicious. It was too big of a risk, and she couldn’t take that.

But she couldn’t _stay_ , though! They had all sorts of connections in this damned city, and while they were all insane, they were also smart. They’d start to notice the coincidences soon, so staying would be like a pig waiting for the slaughter. Her heartbeat picked up, and she stood, now beginning to pace as that familiar feeling of burning, shortness of breath invaded her chest.

_Ok, think, Leya, think! You need to get out of the country, but you’ll have to throw them off your scent. If I call Tio Ernesto, I bet he can get me a visa. I can’t go back to Columbia, Bane’s men would pick up on it eventually, but if I get down there, maybe I could get citizenship somewhere like Argentina. I have no familial connections there, so they’ll never think to look._

It was perfect; she could use the time it took to get the visa as an opportunity to do some sabotage and use her closeness to Penguin to her advantage. If she could catch the clues before they reached the Rogue’s, then she’d be long gone by the time they even started to make the connection.

She walked over to her bag, taking a moment to calm herself before grabbing her phone. She had some calls to make.

She had the next few days off, and Leya spent those perfecting her plan. It would take two weeks for her uncle to secure the visa; she’d called him in a panic last night, explaining the situation. Ernesto was her father’s youngest brother, and he and his wife had been the main ones who tried to convince her to come back to South America. They were also the only family members on either side that her parents had entrusted with knowing the secret about her marks. She had a home with them, she could trust them.

She had already begun to pack up her apartment and clean up her trail. Everything she purchased for the trip was by cash, and she’d made sure to either pack or destroy anything that would incriminate her or tell anyone where she was going. She told no one of her plan, not even lying about going on vacation. It would be better if no one had any knowledge, she didn’t want to be held responsible if someone were to die or be tortured when the Rogue’s came looking for answers.

Leya also started in on the section about Chains in her book. She could have slapped herself across the face for avoiding it, but that wouldn’t do any good now. It offered some very educational insights, ones that would help her as she worked to draw the wool over her Mark’s eyes. She had learned:

  1. For Chains, lying was nearly impossible. Doing so took skill, and lots of practice. A part of her wanted to work at it while she was still in their presence, but she also knew that was just too risky. If she messed up, her entire plan would go up in smoke, and she’d most likely wind up dead.
  2. If she was ever in the room with all her Marks, a bond would begin to form. That meant if they were all together in the room for even ten minutes, they’d all know immediately that she’d gotten too far away once she’d finally left. She’d have to attempt to avoid that.
  3. Mark Guilt: This went for all marked people, not just Chains. Should one person in the Marked relationship cause harm or be the cause of harm to the other, they’d be riddled with crippling guilt and physical pain until they either A) avenged their Mark, or B) brought their Mark out of pain. A part of her was infuriated when she learned that. She’d spent her whole life avoiding her Marks, trying to live her life, and they were just going to _kill her?_ Who the fuck did they think they _were?!_
  4. Due to the no lying thing, Marks tended to be inclined to believe whatever the other Mark in the relationship said, especially if it was a Chain. This was something she highlighted; it could be used to her advantage.
  5. The longer she was around them, the stronger sense they got of her presence. This put her on edge and was something else she highlighted. If she didn’t leave soon, they would all start to connect the dots. Hopefully she could throw them off her scent while she was still there with a few false leads. Maybe planting some false clues in their path would lead them astray just long enough for her to escape safely.



By the time her shift rolled back around, she was ready. A new tube of concealer had been ordered, enough for roughly one month. She’d have to keep them covered even after she left, at least until she was sure they weren’t following her. Then maybe, just maybe, she could live her life without fear. Without covering them, without the long sleeves and pants. She could even cut her hair short like she wanted to.

Leya was going to be living her life on her terms.

Her earbuds were in as she walked into the Lounge, as they usually were, but even the soothing sounds of The Beatles couldn’t calm her nerves down. Just the thought of seeing Penguin sent her stomach rolling, like how she felt flying into Afghanistan for that first time. Realizing you were walking into enemy territory and having no idea if you’d be making it out alive.

She faltered when she walked through the staff door and into the main club area, eyes flitting over the room. They weren’t fully staffed tonight, and if her life wasn’t being threatened, it would have annoyed her. A part of her chest ached; blissful ignorance. It was ironic how much you craved it once it was gone.

_“Blackbird singing in the dead of night_

_Take these broken wings and learn to fly_

_All your life_

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise”_

_Black Bird_ used to be her favorite song, but now it only worsened her anxiety. With a yank at the chord, her white earbuds flopped out and she wrung them around her hand, maybe a little too tight.

“Hey, Leya!”

The girl in question had just finished frantically stuffing her bag into her locker when Jen walked up to her, face tight with concern.

“Oh, hey Jen-“

“What the hell, dude? You ran out of here like a shot yesterday, I thought for sure someone had lit your ass on fire. And why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

The reminder of Jen’s multiple calls and text messages made Leya wince, but she did her best to hide it and only shrugged at her friend/supervisor.

“Sorry, my phone died and by the time it was charged enough, I was already heading to work. I thought I’d just talk to you here.”

The blonde still looked horribly confused and maybe even a little suspicious but shook her head. “Ok, well, no time to think about that now. Boss is going crazy up in his office; he’s been asking for you for at least forty-five minutes.”

That sentence made Leya freeze, and she felt the blood drain from her face. Her hands tightened on the strap of her bag, and she stared hard at the back of her locker.

_No way. There’s no way he could know! Did he see something? Did my concealer rub off? Was my behavior more suspicious than I thought when I left last night?_

“D-Did he- um,” she cleared her throat when her voice caught, fighting to keep herself calm, “did he tell you why?”

“I don’t know.” The blonde groaned, tapping away at her phone and fiddling with her Bluetooth. “I’m trying to figure out where the hell the rest of our tequila is going to come from; the delivery truck crashed just outside of the bridge on its way into the city.” She huffed, then raised her head. “Leya, are you sure you’re ok?”

Leya nodded, forcing a calm smile onto her face as she shut her locker and strung her key back around her neck. “Yeah, I’m good. It’s just, um, it can’t be too good that the boss is on my ass already, huh?”

Jen rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Oh, please. You’re his favorite, Leya, and everyone knows it.”

“I-I don’t think I’m his _favorite-_ “

“Sure, you are! Anytime he needs his dinner, or his favorite drink, or he has to choose an employee to give the best tables too, it’s always, ‘Get me Leya!’ ‘Give that section to Leya, she looks too tired for the larger one.’ ‘Make sure Leya is the one to deliver my dinner, she knows how to shut up!’”

Jen’s mocking British accent was obviously meant to be humorous, but each new revelation hit Leya like a punch in the gut. How could she not have seen it? How could she have been so naively _blind_?

“Shit.” Jen muttered as her phone pinged, and she tapped her Bluetooth, back going ramrod straight despite being in the break room. “Yes sir?”

Even from her spot, Leya could hear Penguin’s voice yelling into the Bluetooth. Jen winced slightly, but otherwise held onto herself well. After several minutes, she nodded.

“Yes sir, she’s just arrived for her shift. I’m sending her to you ASAP.”

Leya nearly turned on her heel and bolted, but she held fast as Jen hung up, fixing her with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Leya. But don’t worry, I don’t think he’s firing you. He ran out of cigars a few hours ago, so I’m sure that’s why he’s so cranky. Once you’re done, I’ll put you with Matt behind the bar. You can stick with helping him tonight.”

Leya muttered a weak expression of gratitude as Jena hustled out of the room, phone pinging several more times as she went. Leya watched her go, wanting to run out and beg not to be sent upstairs.

But this was no time to panic. This was no time to cry and run and try to act like none of it had never happened. She was better than that.

Leya had a plan, and she’d be damned if she didn’t follow it through to the bitter, bloody ending.

With a deep breath, she checked the mirror in the hallway and readjusted her uniform, double-checking her skin. She triple-checked her calf, where she now knew the animal out line to be a black, abstract penguin.

Oh, the irony.

As she neared his office, Leya felt it. The frustration, the anger, the short temper. What it was about, she couldn’t tell, but she could feel his impulse to shatter anything glass that was within his sight. It sounded like a business deal gone bad, maybe? Or maybe one of the Rogue’s had pissed him off again. Despite having many things in common, that group hated each other more than she’d ever seen.

Approaching the door, she heard him growl something into the phone, and then he shouted, “Oh yeah? Well, how about you tell Gordon to roll up that bloody warrant and shove it right up his arse!”

_I guess there’s no good time to wait for,_ she reasoned, and knocked three times. There was more cursing, and then a loud clattering.

“If that’s not my waitress, Leya, you’d best turn around and be on your way!”

“It’s me, sir. Jen told me I needed to speak with you ASAP?”

“Yes, come on then!”

At his shout, Leya pushed the door open and calmly shut it behind her as Penguin raved, a vein popping out of his forehead.

“Where the bloody hell have you been, then, girl? I’ve had Jen call you at least twelve times today! You know, I’ve sacked people for a lot less!”

_I could only pray you fire me and we all go our separate ways,_ Leya thought wryly, but that was a dream.

“I’m very sorry, sir, my phone died and my charger was broken-”

“Right, right!” He waved an impatient hand at her, settling back down into his chair. “Well, go on then! I want my dinner and an entire bottle of cognac within five, got that?”

“Yes, sir.” Leya nodded, nearly zooming from the room. She breathed a sigh of relief as she walked away, doing her best to ignore his calming mood. From the time he’d heard her voice to her leaving the room, his anger slowly faded. Like pain receding with every dose of medicine.

After grabbing the tray of freshly prepared steak, potatoes, soup, asparagus, and the bottle, Leya walked back into Penguin’s office, nodding in thanks to Chester as he helped her open the door.

Penguin was on the phone, no longer shouting, but not exactly looking pleased. He was saying something about a recent arrest. Who’d been arrested, she didn’t know.

Once the tray was placed down, followed by the bottle and the glass, Leya turned to leave as she always did. But Cobblepot’s voice stopped her.

“Stay there, Leya. I’ve got some more errands for you.” He turned back to his phone, eyes drawn in concentration, then he rolled them. “Bollocks, Eddie, if you’ve got the damn papers then send them. If I wanted a history lesson, I’d take a class.”

_Eddie. The Riddler. Papers?_

Once Penguin hung up, he nodded at her. “Now, love, there’s some very important documents coming through the fax machine down the hall, last room on the left. I need you to secure them in a folder and pass them off to Chest, do you understand? And _no looking._ I want the both of you on this. Go.”

Chester was just as quiet then as he’d been on the first night she met him. But this time, Leya didn’t bother trying to speak to him. She walked down the hall, heart pounding, chest feeling tight. Her palms were sweating, and she fought the urge to wipe them on her skirt. If Chester saw her acting weird, he’d rat her out immediately.

The fax machine was just finishing with the papers when they reached it. As she grabbed the manilla folder and moved to grab the papers, she accidentally saw the words at the top.

_Birth Records_

_Columbia_

_June, 1996_

That tight, painful feeling started in her chest again as she shut the manilla folder. Her fingers began to quiver, but she clenched them tightly around the folder. Chester raised an eyebrow at her.

“Problem?” He grunted, but Leya shook her head.

“No. I’ve got them, let’s go back.”

Her mind was racing with possibilities as they walked, ways she could get rid of the documents. But how? If she got rid of them now, Penguin (and the rest of the Rogues) would know it was her. That would just lead to questions, which would eventually lead to answers. And then death.

If Chester noticed anything off about her, he didn’t say anything. Right when they approached Penguin’s office, his phone began ringing. He watched Leya as she set the folder down, pale brown eyes watching her like a hawk.

“What?” He grunted into the phone as he brought it to his ear. Leya couldn’t hear what was being said, but he nodded once, grunted out a ‘fine’, then hung up.

“Leave those papers, Leya. I’m going to have you working with Mason down at the bar tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if anyone gives you trouble,” he told her, pointing a finger in her direction, eyes severe, “you come straight to me, and I’ll sort them out. Understand?”

_Shit. I thought the book said we had to be all together for the bond to start…_

“I understand, sir.”

“Good.” He stood from his desk, flinging on his fur coat and grabbing his umbrella. “You’re one of my best. Can’t have angry drunks ruining my good waitresses; too expensive.”

_I’m sure you think that’s your reasoning._

“Now, come on. Chester, David! With me.”

As they walked out, Leya’s mind was racing. _Have to get rid of those documents. I have to get rid of those papers, no one can see…_

“Wait.”

All three men stopped, turning to her. Penguin looked annoyed, but she ignored it and gestured behind her.

“I need that tray again, sir, Jen was telling me they’re running low on them in the kitchen.”

The older man cocked an eyebrow at her, not looking convinced.

_You’re his Chain, use it!_

“Sir.” She faced Penguin, pouring as much sincerity into her voice as she could. Her eyes flickered to his hands, knowing about the mark on his wrist. Someway, somehow, she felt all her focus pour into that mark. “I’ll just get the tray. You can send Chester and David with me.”

She raised her eyes to his, mentally pushing as hard as she could. She could feel it. She could feel his resolve crumbling, like bricks slowly falling as she pressed against them.

It was working.

“Alright, go on then.” He told her, voice softer. He cleared his throat, face twisting into a familiar scowl. “Hurry up, now. I need you out there.”

Chester and David both looked confused but had the self-preservation not to open their mouths. Leya, however, was doing her best to look as relaxed and sincere as possible. She turned on her heel and slipped back inside, moving to the desk where the folder was sitting next to the silver tray.

A glance back at the door told her she was still alone. Reaching forward, she slowly picked up the folder, flipping it open. As quietly as she was able, she flipped through the papers, searching for the right date. Finally, she came across it. The top of the paper read _June 30 th, Last Name R-T._

Reaching in, she pulled the loose paper free, eyes roving over the names. It went alphabetically, not by time, meaning her name was right up top. _Ramos, Cataleya Martha 0107._

“Leya!”

Penguin’s voice nearly made her drop the folder, but she shut it and placed it back in its original place on the desk, finger trembling as she right the corners and did her best to make sure it looked like it had before. The door was still shut, but she could feel his suspicion. Coloring the edges of his confidence in her like water seeping through the cracks.

“Leya, hurry your arse up!”

Frantically folding the paper, Leya slipped it into her skirt and readjusted her clothing, double checking her reflection in the window to ensure it couldn’t be seen. Then, she grabbed the tray, heart still thundering in her chest.

“I’m coming, sir!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooo, Leya's getting smarter. What else will she do to get away safely? Find out next time, and stay tuned!


	6. POSSESSION

The sound of Gotham City’s afternoon floated through the open window. Sirens, honking horns, cursing, and yelling street vendors faded into the background as Leya stared at her calendar.

One week. That was all she had left to wait, one week. One week, and she’d be completely free.

Leya leaned back against her headboard, playing with her fingers. She desperately wanted a cigarette, but she had none and was a little cash strapped with planning to get down south. Her uniform was laid out on her bed, ready to go for work that night. She really should start getting ready, she’d have to leave in under an hour.

But a part of her was so scared to leave her bed, to leave her safe haven. Gotham wasn’t the best, but she’d made a home here. Cataleya Ramos thrived at adapting to whatever situation she was in, be it good or bad. And Gotham hadn’t been that bad.

But she couldn’t stay. This wasn’t her home, and most importantly, it wasn’t safe. Her eyes drifted back over to the array of pictures she had on her wall, and she unclipped one, bringing it closer.

It was older, a polaroid. The last picture she and Santiago ever had together, just one week before he was killed. The sight of her baby brother, laughing and smiling with his whole world ahead of him, still made tears well up in her eyes. With a shaky sigh, she leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead in the picture.

“I’m coming home, Santi. Tell the big guy upstairs to watch over me, ok?”

* * *

“Leya, the drinks are up!”

It was Saturday night, and Leya didn’t think she’d ever been in such a bad mood. It was near midnight, which was the busiest hour for the Lounge. Patrons were dancing and jumping around, making it difficult to carry any type of tray or drink through the throng.

And that wasn’t the worst part. Most of her Marks, save for Killer Croc, Zsaz and Joker, were up in the Meeting Room. One bonus of the busy main area, though, was that she could use it as an excuse to duck in and out of the room, avoiding being too close to her marks for too long. But what was really getting to her was how her marks were all reacting on her skin; some were throbbing, some were burning, and a solid ache had settled over her bones. Like that time she had an awful fever down in Peru.

Doing her best to keep the scowl from her face, she thanked Mason for his help and picked up the tray of shots, balancing it on her hand.

“Is that for table eighteen?” Jen asked, face flushed as she tapped away at her phone. The poor blonde looked like she was six steps away from collapsing, but both girls knew that Penguin would never let his manager go home early, sick or not.

“Yeah, I got them. After that, the drinks for the Meeting Room should be finished.” Leya explained as she turned to walk away. Jen waved her away, tapping her Bluetooth to answer it.

Taking that as an approval, she headed for the table over by the wall, ignoring the large mirror on the balcony above them. She knew her Marks were watching her, she could feel it even in the chaos of the crowd around her.

“Here are your Jell-O shots.” She announced, carefully setting the tray onto the swirling black and white tabletop. The group of men around her, dressed in smart business suits, all straightened at the sight of the beautiful girl and the tray of alcohol.

“And you wouldn’t happen to come with it, would you, sweetie?” One of the men, who looked older than her father would have been, leered at her. Leya swallowed her disgust and shook her head, face blank. 

“Nope, I’m afraid not. Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen.”

She could hear the other men at the table mocking their friend as she walked away. Doing her best to ignore it, she swung by the bar and snatched up the tray of colorful drinks that sat waiting for her.

The pounding music began to subside as she walked up the stairs, but the ache in her bones got worse. Balancing the tray on her shoulder to knock, she slipped inside to see her boss lay down a winning hand for their poker game.

“Royal flush. I believe I win.”

Quinn through down her cards, a two pair, and scowled. “No fair! Come on, double or nothing!”

“Harley, you’re going to gamble away all you’ve got with you.” Ivy tried to reason, but Penguin held up his hand as Leya began distributing the drinks, tutting.

“Now, now, the lass is a big girl. She can make her own decisions.” He said smoothly, beginning to collect the cards to resort the deck.

The amount of martini’s the harlequin had consumed would suggest otherwise, but nobody questioned the decision. They merely began preparing for the next round.

Leya resisted sighing in relief as she finished setting Crane’s vodka in front of him; they were so wrapped up in the game, they hadn’t really bothered to acknowledge her. Nodding at Penguin, she started for the door.

“Are they giving you trouble, love?”

Her bosses voice made her head perk up, eyes moving to where he was nodding to. Table eighteen, the assholes.

She felt the other’s eyes fall on her, narrowed, waiting for a response. She could feel something from all of them. Anger? Frustration? The thought of those assholes down there was really pissing them off for some reason, but she couldn’t identify what the exact emotion was.

“It’s fine, sir.” Leya denied smoothly. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

Penguin’s glare didn’t let up, though, and he scowled at the table before turning back to her. Leya tried not to flinch when his gaze softened.

“You let me know if they’re bothering you, then.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

The ache in her body began to subside slowly as the night wore on, and soon, it was three o’clock. And because her life was slowly getting better, table eighteen had closed up their tab. With a noticeably happier look on her face, she walked over to the table, check in hand.

“Whenever you’re ready, gentlemen.” She told them, moving to walk away as she set it down, but the same leering voice stopped her. 

“What’s the tip again, sweet thing?”

The pet name made her grit her teeth, but she turned back around with a polite smile. “It’s between fifteen and twenty percent, sir.”

The man hummed, and his friends chuckled as he pulled out his wallet, waving a platinum card around.

“Well, see, I’d love to tip you fully, but I’m afraid we were missing something.”

_I fucking hate being a waitress._ “And what was that?”

“For one, I don’t think you ever smiled at me this whole night!” His eyes dipped to her cleavage, roaming over her skin. “And I didn’t get to see enough of you! You were barely here.”

“I’m afraid that’s because I have other customers.” She told him, trying not to let the coldness seep into her voice. She still had to get up to the Meeting Room and deliver their last round of drinks, and she really didn’t need this.

“Come on, babe,” the man whined, and his grating voice made her sneer. “Show me that beautiful smile.”

“I’m afraid I have work to do-“ Leya turned around to walk away, but a harsh tug on her wrist cut her voice off. She stumbled to right herself before she fell but ended up right in the lap of her customer.

“Stop being such a frigid cunt!” He growled irritably, jostling her as she shoved his hands away. “Come on!”

His friends jeered at her as well, but a rising fury was blinding her. He had just embarrassed her in front of her Marks and her coworkers, and that was something she refused to put up with.

She grabbed the hand on her waist and twisted it with all her might.

There was a satisfying crunching noise, and the man shrieked. It caused several heads to turn their way, but Leya was so pissed that she barley even noticed. Her blood was boiling, ears burning in humiliation as she jumped to her feet.

“ _Don’t_ touch me.” She snarled, and the man looked up from cradling his now-injured wrist, his own face twisting into a dark look.

“You spoiled _bitch_ -!” He roared, lunging up from his seat. Leya was ready, hands up, prepared to grab his only good hand before his next punch to make contact and flip him onto the ground. Let him feel the humiliation she’d felt.

But before his knuckles got halfway towards her, an incredibly large hand caught it and completely enveloped it in his own.

“I believe I heard the _senorita_ ask you to leave her alone.”

Bane was standing right next to her, his eyes burning holes into the man whose hand he was beginning to squeeze tighter and tighter. A flash of blonde hair made her head turn to see Harley, Ivy, and Penguin all down there with her. Chester and David were on either side of their boss.

And none of the Rogue’s looked happy.

Bane tightened his hold on the man’s hand, and he whimpered, bending with the contraction as his face twisted in pain.

“Please, stop!”

“Is there a reason you’re harassing my staff, sir?” Penguin asked lowly, dangerously. The atmosphere around them was so still that you could have cut it with a knife. Even the music had stopped. No one dared move, not even Leya.

“She was teasing me, she fucking showed off her tits like that! She was asking for it!”

Indignation flared inside Leya’s chest, and she fought the urge to break the man’s jaw.

But she didn’t need to stop herself. She felt the anger from her Marks flare to a dangerously high level, like a flame doused in alcohol, and Penguin nodded at Chester. The large, burly man walked forward and took over for Bane. Kicking his knees out from under him, the bodyguard pinned his injured hand behind his back while David grabbed the other and slammed it across the table. He roughly rolled up the stranger’s sleeve, exposing his forearm and hand.

Leya was so caught up in how horrified the mans friend looked that she nearly jumped when Penguins spoke again.

“Which one?”

She turned to see her boss looking at her, face dark. She blinked.

“Sir?”

“It’s an explicit rule here at the Iceberg Lounge that no one is to lay a _finger_ on my staff. So,” he gestured to the man’s hand again, “he laid several on you. Which one would you like David to cut off?”

The girl had to admit; she blanked. The man to shake his head, face white and frantic.

“No, please, don’t do it! I didn’t mean it, I-!”

“Shut up!” Bane growled, knocking his fist into the man’s stomach. He gasped and doubled over, coughing hard.

A hand ran through Leya’s curls gently, and then Harley settled her head on the younger girl’s shoulder. “Do the thumb, gorgeous.” She whispered softly into Leya’s ear, voice soothing. “It’s such a small thing, but it stops him from being able to do _so much._ ”

Leya began shaking her head. It wasn’t because she was squeamish; she’d done worse than take a man’s thumb. But she couldn’t do this, not with _them._ The consequences could be drastic.

“I don’t know, it’s ok-“

“It isn’t ok.” Penguin growled, limping over to the man. “How will I look if I can’t follow through on my threats? David, take his thumb.”

“No! No please! No!” The man was shrieking, fighting against Chester’s hold. But he was older, roughly in his fifties, and not very strong. The bodyguard held fast, and David produced a large carving knife. The blade glinted wickedly in the light, and the stranger’s eyes widened in terror.

“No, I didn’t mean it! Please, ma’am, I didn’t- _AHHHHHHHH!”_

His begging was cut short by the sound of a blade driving through bone, and blood immediately began to soak the table. Chester dropped him into the ground, and he began to writhe on the ground, shrieking and sobbing. His wrinkly, pale thumb was tossed beside him. As if taunting him.

“Get him out of my sight!” Penguin barked, then turned to the rest of the table. “The lot of you! Out! And don’t ever come back!”

The group clearly didn’t need to be told twice, and they scooped up their friend and his now-missing appendage, taking off for the exit.

Leya stood, shocked into silence, completely still. She could still feel Harley twirling her hair around her finger, soothing her and cooing about how well she did. But the waitress could barely contain her horror. She now could identify the emotion in the Meeting Room, the one that was coming off of her Marks, both down here and still upstairs, in waves.

It was possessiveness.

The bond had already begun to form.

The night was freezing; the autumn months were slowly creeping in. Soon rain would be the most prominent weather forecast, but the figure standing on the edge of the building was ready.

The Dark Knight’s cape billowed around him like a storm cloud, increasing his intimidating nature. But he knew the person he was meeting with tonight was not very easily intimidated, and especially not by him.

It was one of his favorite things about her.

“Selena.”

Catwoman didn’t even flinch as he turned to face her; there was too much on her mind. She stood silently a few feet away, face tight with worry. Even behind her mask, Batman could see her apprehension and anxiety. A rare set of emotions for the woman, and he knew almost immediately what it was about.

“You still haven’t found them?”

Selena Kyle sighed angrily through her nose, trying to ignore the way her heart thundered in fear when she mentally answered _yes_ to his question. “I need your help, Bruce.”

“I don’t know where they are-“ 

“Bullshit. I know you have Strange’s files, I know that’s how you found out.” She fixed him with a glare, but he could easily see her fear. “I need your help, my-“ she stopped, the word feeling strange on her tongue, “my mark’s life depends on it.”

“What are the other Rogue’s planning?”

She shook her head, face tight with worry. “Nothing good. We need to work fast. How many people are named after a flower in this city?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if it will be next chapter or the one after that the Rogue's figure it out? Will Leya be long gone when they do, or will her escape plan crumble under all the pressure? Find out next time, and thanks for reading!


End file.
